


Fucking Yrs

by paaigek



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Anxiety, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Panic, Genderbending, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Female Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Sex, Love Letters, M/M, Multi, POV First Person, POV Lesbian Character, Pining, Secret Relationship, Self-Indulgent, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 25,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27755410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paaigek/pseuds/paaigek
Summary: Harley Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor resents her role as a princess. She resents the First Daughter of the United States even more. Most of all, she resents the huge, raging, embarrassing crush she's had on said FDOTUS for the last four years. When the two come to blows at her sister's wedding and are forced to make nice for the press, maybe she can finally mend the rift between them that Alex seems so intent on maintaining.or, rwrb with the genders of the super six swapped, from harley (henry)'s pov.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran, June Claremont-Diaz/Nora Holleran/Percy "Pez" Okonjo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	1. Ch1 - part 1

**Author's Note:**

> So chapter one is separated into three sections, which are all gonna be posted separately because that's how it makes sense in my brain. Good? Good :) Please don't be shy about sharing thoughts or criticisms, I have no idea what I'm doing, but I know I'm having fun

At first glance, the sprawling 22-room apartment located on the second floor of Kensington Palace looks nearly exactly as it has for decades. You have to look a bit closer to see any personality, any sign that the space is lived in and loved.

I try to believe I’m a bit like that as well. You have to dig a little to get past the vacant, sparkly veneer of the perfect princess my nan expects me to be to see anything of real truth or value. Or maybe I’m just flattering myself. Maybe in both cases, what you see is what you get.


	2. Ch1 - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben antagonizes Harley about her penchant for internet stalking Alex.

I’m lounging on the settee in the second-floor music room in a decidedly un-princess like manner when the door flies open and in bursts Ben, hands clasping a box of Jaffa cakes and mouth already moving faster than my brain is prepared to compute. I hastily close out of the online edition of the American tabloid I was lazily scrolling through and dedicate my attention to my brother. Unfortunately, this action does not escape his notice.

“What was that?” he demands.

I decide to play dumb. Rookie mistake. “What was what?”  
“What. Were. You. Doing. On. Your. Phone?” he asks, dramatically enunciating every word.

“I was … er …” He pounces and snatches my cell out of my hands. “Hey!”

He guesses my passcode on the first try and sees my screen still shamefully open to an article from Us Weekly on the first children of the United States’ ‘Wild NYC Night’.

“Ah-HA!” Ben screeches, victorious. “I _knew_ you weren’t over your little thing about Alexandria.”

“What thing?” I ask, desperately hoping he doesn’t call my bluff.

“Oh _please_. You’ve been obsessed with her since her mother got elected.”

“I haven’t been obsessed,” I try, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop him interrupting me. “She’s simply decided she loathes me, so it behooves me to stay up to date on her tabloid coverage. Y’know, so I’m prepared to…defend myself…the next time we go toe-to-toe.” I can feel myself running out of steam as my excuse becomes more paper thin, but Ben blessedly doesn’t press the matter.

“Ah …. _huh_.” He doesn’t sound convinced, but doesn’t pry. I send up a silent prayer for siblings who know, and who don’t antagonize. “So…” he draws out the vowel. “what does Us Weekly have to say about your nemesis?”

I roll my eyes and hold my hand out for my phone, even though I’ve already committed the contents of the article to memory. “It says here that she…spent the evening in a presidential suite in New York making ‘amorous noises’ with a mystery brunette, theorized to be Noah Holleran.”

Ben raises his eyebrows as he appraises my face, but doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for there. I clear my throat and he seems finally to recall he was the one who entered my space, guns blazing. “Right. Anyway, I was coming in to ask if you are just over-the-moon ecstatic for all of your maid of honour duties this week.”

I groan and let my head fall back against the cushion. “Please. You and I both know that position is title only. Pippa probably doesn’t even want me there.”

“You know she means well, H,” he says, not unkindly. “She just…has a royally fucked up way of showing it sometimes.”

I suppress the snort that threatens to leave my body at his choice of words. “Well, I just want this weekend to come and go quietly so I can stop hearing about it already.”


	3. Ch1 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Wedding arrives, we hear Harley's given name, and see H & A interact for the first time.

As much as I am not looking forward to my sister’s wedding, I am grateful to have won the debate as to whether I’d be expected to attend with a date. Unfortunately, this victory came at what is arguably a much more painful price: these godforsaken shoes. Try as I may to convince nan and her army of stylists that no princess need ever surpass 6 feet of height, they still insist on wrestling me into heels for nearly every public appearance. No matter how much practice I’ve gotten over the years, all of it unwilling, I still cannot stand the things.

Despite the medieval torture devices strapped to my feet, the wedding passes without incident from myself or anyone else. It drones on for what feels like forever, but Philippa is absolutely beaming, and in a way it’s nice to see her looking anything but judgmental for a little while. Her groom is tall, and blond, and absolutely dull to look at, and is in every way exactly the sort of man my sister was expected to wed. With a hastily disguised shudder, my thoughts settle briefly on the fact that he is also exactly the type of man I’ll be expected to marry. I push the thought aside. That can be a concern for tomorrow. 

Finally, _finally_ , I find myself sitting in a Buckingham Palace ballroom beside Ben, gratefully accepting the flute of champagne passed my way. As much as I want to gulp it down gracelessly, I force myself to take measured sips. As much as I try to keep my attention on the conversation at my table, I can’t keep my gaze from flicking back to Alexandria every few seconds. She is radiant in a jewel-toned jumpsuit, with a plunging neckline, little lace cap sleeves, and straight legs. And she doesn’t look the slightest bit uncomfortable in her heels. I tell myself the taste in my throat is resentment.

Ben nudges me and I realize I’ve been looking for too long. “Hey,” he says. “watch this.”

He gestures for an attendant I should know the name of but can’t seem to recall and whispers something in his ear, then gets to his feet and pulls me up with him. He plants me by the champagne fountain and I grab another flute of the stuff, but don’t immediately sip as he takes a few steps away from me. The attendant, who I’ve mentally dubbed Bartholomew in the absence of an actual name, sweeps dramatically toward the table containing the First Siblings and the Veep’s grandson. I see him bow deeply once he’s planted himself in front of them and just barely suppress the urge to hide my face in my hands. Alexandria looks stunned, and I see Noah lean forward and answer for her. Alexandria moves in a way that I can only assume means she’s kicked him under the table, and judging from his grimace it was not gentle. Her brother places a soothing hand on her forearm and says something to Bartholomew. He looks puzzled and throws a desperate look to Ben, who meets him halfway between the table and the dance floor. They have a short exchange and Ben breaks into a shit-eating grin before nodding and turning toward me, beckoning me over with a crooked finger. I slam my champagne and steel myself for whatever I’m about to walk into.

“Princess Helena,” Christopher Claremont-Diaz greets me with an outstretched hand, and I remind myself not to grimace. His voice is whiskey warm and his eyes are somehow warmer. I take his hand and he kisses the back of my fingers, managing to keep a straight face in the process. I stifle a nervous giggle.

“Christopher,” I greet him in return. “Please, just call me Harley.” He grins.

“And you can call me Kit.”

“Kit.” I smile earnestly now. He has an easy way about him, and the sudden influx of alcohol to my system has helped to ease my nerves. “You know how to waltz?”

He winks. “Not even a little bit. But I’m a very fast learner.” I let this laugh escape, light and airy, less rehearsed than the one I usually use in public. He offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

As Kit twirls me around the dance floor – he wasn’t kidding about being a fast learner – I find my eyes searching for my brother and Alexandria. She looks less dour than she normally is when interacting with me, which puts a pang in my chest that I decide not to look into too deeply. Ben smirks when he meets my eye for a moment, then returns his attention to the First Daughter. I take this as my cue to give my full attention to the admittedly very handsome First Son who is quietly counting steps a breath away from me. I’m vaguely aware of flashes from nearby as the royal photographer tries to line up a shot capturing all four of us flatteringly. I keep a kind smile plastered on my face and allow my mind to wander.

The first time I saw Alexandria Claremont-Diaz, I was in the worst place, mentally, of my short life. My dad had died only a year prior, and Ben was newly sober, and I was wrestling with my identity and simultaneously wanting to escape the expectations of the Crown and live up to them. And she walked right up to me and planted herself in front of me, held out a hand to shake. She had such an easy confidence about her, it was like she glowed. My heart thumped in my chest, and it was a feeling I didn’t like, didn’t want to ruminate on. So, I pushed it inside, as deep in my chest as it would go. And I wasted my opportunity. She held it out in front of me, friendship, something real, maybe the first real thing of my miserable life, and I was too much of a coward to take it.

Apparently, she isn’t one for second chances.

I’m hovering near the cake and champagne fountain, scanning the dance floor in a detached way, when a familiar figure solidifies in front of me. Actually, barreling towards me is a more accurate way to put it. She grabs a glass of wine off a passing tray and takes such a large gulp from it I’m surprised she doesn’t choke. The closer she gets, the more tempted I am to bolt. I stand my ground.

She slides up beside me, right into my space. “When you have one of these,” she says, “you should do two champagne fountains instead of one. Really embarrassing to be at a wedding with only one champagne fountain.”

I exhale, mentally counting down from five to steady my breathing. “Alexandria. I wondered if I’d have the pleasure.”

“ _Alex_ ,” she corrects me through gritted teeth. I choose not to smile, not in small part because I wouldn’t put it past her to bodily harm me if she felt I was mocking her. “And it looks like it’s your lucky day.”

“Truly a momentous occasion,” I agree, forcing a casual tone. I give her my brightest smile. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, can feel the heat of irritation emanating off of her.

“Do you ever get tired,” Alex says, “of pretending you’re above all this?”

I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that. I turn to face her fully and stare. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, you’re out here, getting photographers to chase you, swanning around like you hate the attention, which you clearly don’t because you’re dancing with my brother, of all people.”

“I-" I start to interrupt, to defend myself that it was her brother who asked me to dance, and my brother who started the whole thing by asking _her_ to dance, but she barrels onward.

“You act like you’re too important to be anywhere, ever. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

I’m…a bit more complicated than that,” I attempt, hoping to end the conversation without finding myself screaming at her about all the ways in which she is wrong.

“ _Ha_.” I can smell the wine on her breath.

“Oh,” I say. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, reaching up comically to lean an overly friendly elbow on my shoulder. I magnanimously choose not to shrug it off. “You could try to act like you’re having fun. Occasionally.”

I laugh, trying not to let any bitterness creep into the sound. “I believe you should consider switching to water, _Alex_.”

“Should I?” she says. “Am I offending you? Sorry I’m not obsessed with you like everyone else. I know that must be confusing for you.”

I can’t help myself. “Do you know what?” I ask her. “I think you are.”

Her mouth drops open, and I can feel my mouth quirk up into something resembling a smirk.

“Only a thought,” I say, keeping my tone polite. “Have you ever noticed I have never once approached you and have been _exhaustively_ civil every time we’ve spoken? Yet here you are, seeking me out again.” I take a sip of my champagne. I know I’m right. “Simply an observation.”

“What? I’m not-” Alex stammers. “You’re the-”

I cut her off before I can let her get me riled up. “Have a lovely evening, Alex,” I say tersely, turning to walk away.

I suppose that’s not how she wanted the conversation to end, because I feel her hand clamp down on my arm and before I can stop myself, I whirl around. The glint in my eye must be menacing, because she stumbles backward and trips on her own feet, tangling one heel in the bottom of the maddening silk thing I’ve been wearing all day. As she stumbles there is a single moment of horrifying clarity in which I register that she is falling towards the table bearing massive eight-tier wedding cake. She grabs for my arm, presumably to catch herself but possibly to implicate me as well, and it takes very little force to pull me off balance. The two of us crash together into the cake stand.

It is somehow worse watching from my own point of motion as the cake slowly but irreversibly teeters and tips in an avalanche of buttercream. The room is silent as momentum carries the both of us into the carnage. Alex still has her hand clamped around my wrist, and my glass has shattered in my hand. I am vaguely aware of a stinging sensation on one cheekbone, and assume a shard of the glass has found its way to my face.

I am sticky and mortified and covered in a metric fuck ton of frosting as I dart my eyes to the side and see Alex in roughly the same state. “Oh my fucking Christ,” I say before I can even think to censor myself.

The words have barely left my mouth before I register the flash from someone’s camera going off.


	4. Ch2 - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaan briefs Harley on the game plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 will be separated into 7 sections, and as soon as I've decided on fem Pez's name, part two will be uploaded. As always, any thoughts or criticisms are welcome :)

Shaan closes his eyes and presses his fingers to his temples as I sit across from him. For him, this indicates that I could genuinely be within inches of him ending one, or both, of our lives. I wait for him to speak first. I spent the better part of the morning scrolling through headline after headline concerning Alexandria and I’s ‘ _cake-tastrophe’_ as it was dubbed by _The Sun_. I know exactly how bad this is. I also know that there’s no talking myself out of it, so I don’t bother to try.

“So,” Shaan starts. “Here’s the deal. I’m certain you are able to grasp how monumentally terrible this entire situation is, both for us and on the Americans’ end.” I nod mutely. “The one positive, and I am using that word _very_ liberally,” he continues, “is that essentially all of the tabloids have agreed that the fall itself was Miss Claremont-Diaz’s fault.”

“Which is true-”

“ _However_ , they also state that the feud between the two of you has been building since your first meeting, and that these days the two of you can’t even stand to be in the same room together.” I know all of this already, and I suspect that in Alexandria’s case this latter bit may actually be true, but I opt not to interrupt again. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. Miss Claremont-Diaz is going to spend Sunday here.”

I blink, certain I haven’t heard right. Shaan’s extended silence seems to be giving me permission to speak. “Erm…what?” I ask eloquently.

Shaan sighs. “I spent the evening and the better part of the morning conferencing with members of President Claremont’s staff coming up with a plan. First we’ll be releasing a joint statement with the White House saying that the incident at your sister’s wedding was an accident and a misunderstanding-”

“Which it was.”

“-and that, although you don’t often see one another, you and Alexandria have actually been close friends for several years now.”

“We’re…what?”

“Well,” Shaan says, sipping from the teacup he’s neglected up until now. “It behooves both the monarchy and the White House to come out of this looking good, and the best way to accomplish that is to frame your rather spectacularly unfortunate mishap at the wedding as a bit of friendly banter gone askew, yes? So, she’ll be coming over here and the two of you had better look like best of fucking friends for the cameras.” He has an eerie smile plastered onto his face.

“…Right,” I agree.

“So, congratulations. You have a new, if slightly aggressive, best friend. The two of you will spend the weekend doing charity appearances and discussing your friendship and love for one another with the press.” He slides a sheet of paper across the table toward me, and I flip it so I can read it. Across the top it reads: FDOTUS ALEXANDRIA CLAREMONT-DIAZ FACT SHEET.

“You’re to memorize everything on this so if the press tries to catch you in a lie, you’ll know what to say.” I scan the list quickly, and my eyes land on ACADEMICS. Her high school GPA is listed. Though the grading system here differs, I know that hers is impressive. I raise an eyebrow.

“Does she get one of these for me?”

“Yes.”

“What does it say?”

“I…put it together with the help of a few members of your grandmother’s PR team.”

I groan. “Shaan, you do realize she already hates me, right? If my fact sheet is full of whatever my grandmother _wishes_ were true about me, no one’s going to believe she can stand to be around me, never mind that we’re mates.”

Shaan rests his hand on mine in a kind gesture. “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.” I force myself to meet his eyes and smile weakly. “Now, here’s your itinerary for the weekend. And they’re expecting you to be present at a state dinner in a few months.” I nod. That’s doable.

“Anything else?”

Shaan purses his lips. “You know I’m here for you, Miss, yes?” This time I’m the one who reaches to connect our hands.

“Sometimes it feels like you’re the only one.”


	5. Ch2 - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley studies up on the First Daughter's fact sheet.

God, I wish Velle were here. I’ve facetimed her in to brief her on my current situation, but it’s not the same. Her energy in the room is all I need right now, the only thing that could possibly make me feel any better. Ben does his best to stand in.

In the converted music room on the second floor of Kensington Palace, Ben balances cross-legged on a pouf and makes a great show of meditating as I pore over Alexandria’s fact sheet, reaching for another Jaffa cake without looking and accidentally splashing my fingers into a blessedly no-longer-scalding cup of tea.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” I cry, maybe a bit more dramatically than is necessary, and Ben opens one eye to glance at me.

“Talk to me, H,” he says in that infuriatingly soothing tone that makes me actually do what he says.

“No,” I bring my fingers to my mouth and suck the lukewarm tea off of them, something I would only ever do in front of him.

He sighs dramatically and leaves his pouf, coming around behind the settee and reading over my shoulder. “Fine.” He plucks the sheet nimbly from my fingers. “Then at least let me help you prepare.” I roll my eyes internally. I probably could’ve answered any of the questions on that sheet without reading it first, and he knows it. My internet stalking of my self-proclaimed archnemesis is not a secret from him.

“Y’know,” he muses, “there’s something dreadfully Shakespearian about this whole thing. The two of you, daughters of opposing world leaders, forced to make nice to soothe tensions between your countries.”

I wallop a pillow at his head. “ _Please_ don’t equate my life to anything Shakespeare has ever written. The man is not known for his happy endings.”

Ben chuckles. “Alright, let’s see how well you know the fair lady of Verona, then. Parentage?”

“Too easy. Ellen Claremont, first female and 45th overall President of the United States. Daughter of a single mother from Texas, worked nights to put herself through law school. Father is Oscar Diaz, senator from California, son of Mexican immigrants. Divorced from her mother in 2010. Ellen met her second husband Leo a few years later, who was a millionaire inventor but sold his company when Ellen took office.”

“Very nice. Education?”

“Went to high school in Texas, graduated with an utterly obscene grade point average of 4.3. Do you know that’s out of four in America? Like, how does that even happen?” Ben has an eyebrow quirked at me. Right. “Anyway, three sport varsity athlete through high school, graduated with enough AP credits to finish college a semester early. Currently a semester shy of a bachelor’s degree from Georgetown in Government.”

“Again, just lovely work, H.” I can tell he’s mocking me but don’t fight back. “Let’s get a bit tougher, shall we? Best friend’s name? Besides you, of course.”

“That sheet says it’s a girl called Lila she went to high school with, but I’d say it’s Noah or her brother. She hasn’t been seen with Lila since moving into the White House. And the section under that one is on allergies: dust and Tide laundry detergent. And she doesn’t eat grapes, but that’s a personal preference, not an allergy.”

Ben whistles softly. “Christ, H. You gonna be able to do this?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” I tell him stubbornly. He folds the sheet and looks at me with such concern and affection welling in his eyes, I want to look away. I don’t. He puts the sheet down and kisses me on the hairline, then presses a warm hand to my cheek.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Clearly you’re perfectly prepared for this.” I nod resolutely, biting down on my lip to repress the ridiculous urge to cry. Why is he _looking_ at me like that? “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning?” I nod again and press my hand over his before he leaves.


	6. Ch2 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex arrives in London, and I get creative with replacing polo with a sport I actually understand.

On Saturday I’m so distracted at practice that one of my mates from university pulls me aside and asks me where my head’s at. I suppose I should be grateful- she doesn’t want me to get hurt. Instead, all I can feel is irritation and a little knot of anxiety at the thought of seeing Alexandria after this.

It is to the great chagrin of my grandmother that I played volleyball in uni. She pushed for something more refined, and less … well, sweaty. I suppose that’s actually something I owe to Philippa- with her being every part the perfect princess, I was allowed a bit more freedom to explore less traditional interests. Between that and my mum’s efforts to convince Nan that “sporty little girls will love having something in common with their princess!”, she couldn’t really refuse. Besides- I was good enough to back up my passion for it. Not necessarily in a boastful way, but long, strong legs and a wide wingspan make for a bit of a power duo in women’s volleyball.

I love every second of it.

“I’m fine,” I assure Miranda. “Sorry. I’m here.”

She looks unconvinced but doesn’t argue. “Right.”

When practice ends, I discreetly check my reflection in my phone’s screen and decide things are about as good as they're going to get. I remove my kneepads and ankle supports before striding outside to where Alexandria is waiting in the carpark. She’s wearing jeans and a cute maroon sweater and her hair does not at all look like she’s just come off of a transatlantic flight. For a moment I am horrified she’s seeing me, probably absolutely disgusting, after practice, but I realize it’s too late to panic and steel myself.

I pull my hair out of its ponytail and let honey blonde surround me like a protective curtain as I approach her. As soon as I’m close enough to hear her she says, “I’m going to throw up on you.”

I can’t help myself. “Ah, but dear, you look perfectly sober!”

“Only for you, Your Royal Highness,” she says with a mocking curtsy.

“You’re too kind,” I say, reaching a hand out for her to shake. I can’t imagine she’d want to hug me just after a shower, never mind immediately after a workout.

She grasps my hand and I’m surprised to feel callouses there. “This is idiotic,” she says through gritted teeth. “Let’s get it over with.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see a royal photographer on the other side of the fence. I lean in to kiss her cheek and whisper, “I’d rather be waterboarded.” As I switch to the other cheek I add, “Your country could probably arrange that.”

She throws her head back and laughs and have I ever noticed how perfect her teeth are? The laugh doesn’t reach her eyes. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Hardly enough time,” I return quickly. I release my grip on her as Shaan approaches us.

“Your Highness,” he greets me. I can practically _feel_ Alex’s disdain from here. “The photographer should have what he needs, so if you’re ready, the car is waiting.”

I roll my shoulders out and relax the muscles of my jaw. This is going to be even harder than I thought. I turn and offer Alexandria a smile. “Shall we?”


	7. Ch2 - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley goes to raid Alex's refrigerator and has a midnight conversation.

As usual, I am unable to fall asleep. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that Alexandria is sleeping under the same roof. Somewhere between giddiness and dread. Not that that really narrows it down. Finally, I give up on sleep with a sigh and pad out of my bedroom. Sugar. That’s what I need. Bleary eyed I crack open the freezer door and curse Ben silently. How hard is it to tell somebody when you eat the last of the Cornettos? We literally don’t even have to go get more ourselves. I sigh and shut the door, grabbing my phone off the counter.

I turn on the flashlight and set off across the palace, hoping beyond hope that Alex was jetlagged enough to go straight to bed. I turn on the hallway light before turning into the guest kitchen and- of course. I freeze in my tracks when I see her perched on the counter. She’s in a long-sleeved blue shirt and grey sweatpants, one socked foot curled up under the opposite leg. I’m suddenly very aware of my own bare feet and the fact that I’ve already taken my bra off for the night, and consciously make the decision not to cross my arms across my chest.

I pull out my earbuds without pausing the Queen track playing softly through them and straighten slightly, cursing myself internally even as I do so. I already know that she resents me and my insistence on acting the proper royal, so why is it I’m not able to stop myself?

“Hello,” I say, and my voice is hoarse from hours of disuse. “Sorry. Er. I was just. Cornettos.” I gesture vaguely toward the refrigerator and am painfully aware that what I’ve just said bore absolutely no meaning to her.

“What?”

I cross to the freezer and pull out the box of Cornettos, showing her the box. “I was out. Knew they’d stocked you up.”

“Do you raid the kitchens of all your guests?”

“Only when I can’t sleep,” I find myself responding. “Which I always. Didn’t think you’d be awake.” I glance to her, waiting for her to give me the go-ahead. She thinks for long enough that I actually begin to fear she’s going to refuse, then finally nods.

She looks back to her phone for a moment, but for some reason I don’t leave. “Have you practiced what you’ll say tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding irritated. “You’re not the only professional here.”

“I didn’t mean-” I stop myself. “I only meant, do you think we should, ah, rehearse?”

“Do you need to?”

“I thought it might help,” I answer weakly. Of course, she doesn’t need to practice, what was I thinking? She’s got a natural ability to, well, not make a bloody fool of herself at every conceivable turn. I wonder if she even knows it doesn’t come easily to some of us.

She hops off the counter and unlocks her phone. “Watch this.”

She lines up a shot, capturing my hand beside the Cornettos box. My blasted signet ring is front and center- there’s no doubt it’s my hand. In the corner you can just see the pattern of my pajama pants, and I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I’m in plaid and not some cartoon character patterned thing.

“‘Nothing cures jet lag,’” she narrates in a monotone as she taps out her caption, “‘like midnight ice cream with @PrincessHelena.’ Geotag Kensington Palace, and posted.” She holds the phone out for me to see as likes and comments immediately flood the screen. “There are a lot of things worth overthinking, believe me. But this isn’t one of them.”

I frown at her. “I suppose.”

“Are you done?” she asks, terse again. “I was on a call.”

I blink, and this time I don’t suppress the urge to cross my arms over my chest defensively. “Of course. I won’t keep you.”

As I go to leave the kitchen, I pause, unable to keep myself from making one last comment. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

I leave her standing in the kitchen with her phone in hand and the box of Cornettos still sitting on the counter.


	8. Ch2 - part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Harley have their appearance on This Morning.

I was too nervous to eat anything before going onto _This Morning_ , as is normally the case when I’m expected to speak in public. Alexandria and I quickly find ourselves crammed into the backseat with a flurry of attendants and stylists fussing over me. I shut my eyes softly and allow them to poke and prod and adjust me as needed, but open them when Shaan twists around from the passenger seat. He passes me a little yellow pill and I gratefully snatch it up and toss it back dry. I sneak a sideways glance to Alexandria, who sees and says nothing, and find myself momentarily- and unforgivably- overwhelmed by gratitude.

When we arrive, I feel all of the blood in my body pool in my feet at the sight of the awaiting photo line and the throng of royal worshippers. I turn and give Alexandria what I hope is one last encouraging grin, but what I suspect comes out more like a grimace.

“Princess goes first, then you,” Shaan tells her, rather unnecessarily given I’m seated by the door that will open onto the sidewalk. Alexandria takes in a deep, steadying breath, and turns on the smile that could make hearts skip a beat worldwide. Not that I speak from experience.

“After you, Your Highness,” she says, winking as she puts on a pair of cat-eye sunglasses. “Your subjects await.”

I swallow a wave of nausea and untangle my legs, stepping out and waving a rehearsed princess wave. Cameras are flashing, and everyone is shouting, and I remind myself not to allow my eyes to bug out in that deer-caught-in-headlights look they have a tendency to do when I’m feeling overwhelmed. I just barely have time to register a (very cute) blue haired girl holding up a glittery poster reading SIT ON MY FACE, PRINCESS HELENA! before a member of my security team yanks it from her and shoves it into the nearest trash can. I resist the urge to break into a real grin and settle for a genial, if vacant, smile.

Alexandria steps out behind me, and though today’s outfit is blessedly completed by flats, still has to reach up just a little more than can possibly be comfortable to throw an overly-friendly arm around my shoulders. She squeezes me to her, and for a fleeting moment I find myself wondering how it’s possible she smells like summertime on a day as dismally grey as this.

“Act like you like me!” she says cheerfully. I bring myself back to focus and tinkle out a laugh, slipping an arm around her waist. “There we go.”

I’m painfully aware of Alexandria just a few feet to my right, having the single blemish on her otherwise flawless face covered up by a makeup artist before we head onstage. I blink dazedly when Carmen literally snaps her fingers in front of my nose, then smile. She’s been my stylist for as long as I can recall, and is probably the only person in the world besides Velle who would dare to do such a thing, much less in public. I kind of love her for it.

Soon I’m leading Alexandria out onto the stage, and kissing Stu on a cheek as Alex gives Dottie a smile that makes me wonder how in the world she’s ever _not_ gotten exactly her way. The two of them peck on the cheek and then we’re seated, waiting for the audience to calm itself so we can begin.

I’m very conscious of my posture, sitting ramrod straight beside Alex with my ankles crossed firmly beneath me. I’m grateful to be in corduroys today, rather than a skirt, but I know if I don’t keep my muscles tensed I’ll be tapping my feet or bouncing my knee like a madwoman on national television. I sneak a sideways glance, and Alex looks so at ease beside me I want to scream. She is every bit the all-American sweetheart, and it’s hard not to resent it just a little bit.

There’s a silence that goes a beat too long, and I realize Alex is looking at me too and has nearly missed Dottie’s question. Luckily, she seems to have been at least half listening, which is more than I can say for myself.

“You know, Dottie, it’s gorgeous,” Alex says. “I’ve been here a few times since my mom got elected, and it’s always incredible to see the history here, and the beer selection.” The audience laughs, and I definitely don’t file away the fact that _Alexandria is a beer drinker_ for later rumination. She relaxes her shoulders slightly at the positive response. “And of course, it’s always great to see this sweetheart.”

She extends a hand toward me, and I hesitate a moment before clasping it in mine, consciously reminding myself not to interlace our fingers. The term of endearment echoes in my ears and I repeat like a mantra; _it’s just for the cameras, it’s just for the cameras._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more parts of ch2, both of which will be up tomorrow. Let me know what's working/isn't and thanks to anyone who's read this far :)


	9. Ch2 - part 6

Alexandria and I and a veritable hoard of security have completely overtaken a floor at the Royal Marsden NHS foundation trust. When Shaan asked me what charitable cause I’d like to make our appearance at this weekend, the choice was easy. I love kids. Kids are easy to talk to, and they don’t expect too much, and they haven’t yet learned to judge. Kids with cancer perfectly fits in the center of the Venn diagram between THINGS THAT ARE DEAR TO MY HEART and THINGS THE PRESS ABSOLUTELY LOVES.

I’m smiling next to a cherubic, bald little boy for the cameras and silently begging them to just _leave_ already so I can actually talk to this poor little soul rather than treating him like a prop for good press. I drift from bedside to bedside, explaining to awestruck little faces that this is my dear friend, the daughter of the president, and would it be alright if she spent a little time with them? Before long Alexandria is gamely fielding questions about all of the American celebrities the kids want to know if she knows, and I leave her, knowing she’s more than capable of taking care of herself.

A few hours later I’m squatting at the bedside of a sweet-faced little girl named Claudette, holding her small hand in mine. She’s wearing an orange scarf around her head, and on it I recognize the Alliance Starbird. I lean close to her ear and whisper, just for her, “Star Wars fan, are you?”

Claudette’s face lights up. “Oh, it’s my absolute favorite. I’d like to be just like Princess Leia when I’m older because she’s so tough and smart and strong, and she gets to kiss Han Solo.”

She’s blushes but keeps eye contact, and I chuckle in a way I hope she knows is not unkind. “Y’know what,” I tell her, leaning in again conspiratorially, “I think you’ve got the right idea.”

She giggles. “Who’s your favorite?”

The answer is right at the tip of my tongue, but I pretend to think hard for a moment. “I always liked Luke. He’s brave and good, and he’s the strongest jedi of them all. I think Luke is proof that it doesn’t matter where you come from or who your family is- you can always be great if you’re true to yourself.” I bite back the added reason that I’ve always, at least subconsciously, envied Luke a bit for the fact he got to grow up anonymously. He never had to fill the tight, pinchy shoes of royalty and smile anyway.

I’m about to ask her another question when her nurse comes round the curtain and makes me jump as she greets her young patient. I hear a commotion from the other side of the curtain, and Alexandria clears her throat and stands, refusing to meet my eyes. “You two can go, it’s time for her meds.”

“Miss Beth, Harley said we were mates now!” Claudette protests. “She can stay!”

“Excuse you!” Nurse Beth scolds, and I am quick to wave her off. “That’s no way to address the princess. Terribly sorry, Your Highness.”

“No need to apologize,” I tell her truthfully. “Rebel commanders outrank royalty.” I wink and salute Claudette, and she beams.

In the hallway, Alexandria says, “I’m impressed.” I raise an eyebrow, and she amends, “Not impressed, just surprised.”

“At what?”

“That you actually have, you know, feelings.”

I’m just starting to smile, pleased to have finally surprised her, when I hear a cacophony of noises at the opposite end of the hall. There’s shouting and loud popping and I haven’t even begun to parse what that could mean when I am bodily grabbed by perhaps the largest hand I have ever encountered and gracelessly deposited into a dark broom cupboard.

“ _Stay down_ ,” the hulking secret service agent grunts before slamming the door and plunging Alexandria and I into darkness.

Alexandria stumbles on something across the floor and hooks one leg around one of mine, and the two of us tumble down in a clatter of bedpans. I hit the floor first, hard, and Alex lands even harder on top of me.

“Oh God,” I say, voice muffled against the floor.

“You know,” Alexandria says into my hair, breath warm against my neck, “we have to stop ending up like this.”

“Do you _mind_?”

“This is _your_ fault!”

“How is this _possibly_ my fault?” I hiss, desperately trying to keep my voice low.

“Nobody ever tries to shoot me when I’m doing presidential appearances, but the minute I go out with a fucking royal-”

“Will you shut up before you get us both killed?” If my arms weren’t pinned, I would cover her mouth myself.

“Nobody’s going to kill us. Cash is blocking the door. Besides, it’s probably nothing.”

“Then at least _get off me_.”

“Stop telling me what to do! You’re not the princess of me!” She sounds petulant.

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, having had enough, and push hard off the ground to roll Alex off of me. She’s wedged between my body and some sort of industrial shelf in what cannot possibly be a comfortable position, and I honestly cannot bring myself to care.

“Can you move over, Your Highness?” At least she’s whispering now as she shoves against me with her shoulder. “I’d rather not be the little spoon.”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” I tell her. I’m sweating a little at the sheer proximity of her body against mine. “There’s no room.”

Outside people are rushing around and speaking in frantic tones. I try not to think too hard on why Alexandria has more experience with this sort of situation than myself, but there is something to be said for her country’s reputation for gun violence.

“Well,” Alex says. “Guess we better make ourselves comfortable.”

I exhale tightly. “Fantastic.”

I shift slightly and cross my arms across my chest, trying to give her a bit more space. “For the record,” I say, “nobody’s ever made an attempt on my life either.”

“Well, congratulations,” Alexandria says. “You’ve officially made it.”

“Yes, this is exactly how I always dreamed it would be. Locked in a cupboard with your elbow inside my rib cage,” I say, loading my voice with venom. She drives her elbow into my side, hard.

I yelp and instinct takes over. I grab her by the sweater and have her pinned under one thigh before she has the chance to react. She’s smacked her head on the floor and for a moment her eyes are dazed, but she smiles up at me.

“So you _do_ have some fight in you,” she says. She bucks her hips, trying to shake me off, but I ignore this and keep her collar clenched tight in my first. I’m bigger and stronger; she’s not shaking me off that easily.

“Are you _quite_ finished?” I say, wishing my voice didn’t sound so strangled. I push down the warm fluttering building beneath my diaphragm. “Could you perhaps stop putting your bloody life in danger now?”

“Aw, you do care,” Alexandria says. “I’m learning all your hidden depths today, sweetheart.”

At the repetition of her earlier term of endearment, the fight goes out of me. I sigh and slump off of her. “I cannot believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are.”

We lie in silence as the minutes tick by. I can practically hear Alexandria’s thoughts moving faster than I could ever compute beside me. I focus on trying to lower my pulse.

“So, uh,” she starts. I glance sideways. “Star Wars?”

It comes out like an accusation.

“Yes, Alexandria,” I retort. “believe it or not, the children of the crown don’t only spend their childhood going to tea parties.”

“I assumed it was mostly posture coaching and ballroom dancing.”

I wish she were incorrect. “That … may have been part of it.”

“So, you’re into pop culture, but you act like you’re not,” she says. “Either you’re not allowed to talk about it because it’s unseemly for the crown, or you choose not to talk about it because you want people to think you’re _cultured_. Which is it?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” I deflect. “I don’t think royal guests are allowed to do that.”

“I’m trying to understand why you’re so committed to acting like someone you’re not, considering you just told that little girl in there that greatness means being true to yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and if I did, I’m not sure that’s any of your concern,” I say, desperate for a change of topic, for her to stop trying to know me on a level I don’t know how to be comfortable with.

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure I’m legally bound to pretend to be your best friend, and I don’t know if you’ve thought this through yet, but that’s not going to stop with this weekend,” she presses. I can feel my fingers tense where they’re still gripping her forearm, and distantly hope she does not bruise easily. “If we do this and we’re never seen together again, people are gonna know we’re full of shit. We’re stuck with each other, like it or not, so I have a right to be clued in about what your deal is before it sneaks up on me and bites me in the ass.”

“Why don’t we start…” I say, turning to fix my eyes on her. In the dark of the cupboard I can just barely see her perfect, rounded nose. “… with you telling me why exactly you hate me so much?”

“Do you really want to have that conversation?”

It seems unavoidable, and we’ve nothing but time. “Maybe I do.”

She crosses her arms, glances down at my own arms across my chest in the same gesture, and deliberately uncrosses hers.

“Do you really not remember being an absolute bitch to me at the Olympics?”

In truth I remember every moment of that day in the most vivid of detail. So much of my life at the time was hazy, like it was happening _to_ me rather than myself playing any active part. But that day is clear. I sigh.  


“Is that the time you threatened to push me into the Thames?”

“ _No_ ,” she says. “It was the time you were a _condescending ass_ at the diving finals. You really don’t remember?”  


“Remind me?”

She glares. “I walked up to you to introduce myself, and you stared at me like I was the most offensive thing you had ever seen. Right after you shook my hand, you turned to Shaan and said, ‘Can you get rid of her?’”

There’s a pause.

“Ah,” I say, clearing my throat, totally unsure how to explain myself. “I didn’t realize you’d heard that.”

“I feel like you’re missing the point,” Alex says, “which is that it’s a douchey thing to say either way.”

“That’s … fair.”

“Yeah, so.”

“That’s all?” I ask. “Only the Olympics?”

“I mean, that was the start.”

I wait for her to continue. “I’m sensing an ellipsis.”

“It’s just …” and I can see her struggling to censor herself, before deciding against it altogether. “I don’t know. Doing what we do is fucking hard. But it’s harder for me. I’m the daughter of the first female president. And I’m not white like she is, I can’t even pass for it. People will always come down harder on me. And you’re, you know, _you_ , and you were born into all of this, and everyone thinks you’re some fairytale fucking princess. You’re basically a living reminder I’ll always be compared to someone else, no matter what I do, even if I work twice as hard.”

I don’t respond for a long while, don’t even know where to begin.

“Well,” I finally say. “I can’t very well do much about the rest. But I can tell you that I was, in fact, a bitch that day. Not that it’s any excuse, but my father had died fourteen months before, and I was still kind of a bitch every day of my life at the time. And I am sorry.”

I can see her doing a bit of mental gymnastics, reframing maybe not just that day at the Olympics, but today as well, and everything in between. I keep still beside her, hoping futilely that if I don’t move for long enough, she’ll forget I am there at all.

Finally, I can’t bear the silence any longer. I clear my throat and she opens her mouth. “Well, good to know you’re not perfect.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, and can feel us falling back into a more familiar rhythm. There’s still no sign of an all clear from the opposite side of the door. I don’t know why, but I open my blasted mouth again.

“ _Return of the Jedi_.”

A beat. “What?”

“To answer your earlier question,” I say. “Yes, I do like Star Wars, and my favorite is _Return of the Jedi_.”

“Oh,” Alex says. And then, “Wow, you’re wrong.”

I huff out a sigh, and ridiculously hope that my breath isn’t terrible, inches away from Alexandria’s face. “How can I be wrong about my own favorite? It’s a personal truth.”

“It’s a personal truth that is wrong and bad.”

“Which do you prefer, then? Please show me the error of my ways.”

“Okay, _Empire_.”

I wish I could say I am surprised. I sniffle. “So _dark_ , though.”

“Yeah, which is what makes it _good_ ,” she insists. “It’s the most thematically complex. It’s got the Han and Leia kiss in it, you meet Yoda, Han is at the top of his game, Fucking _Lando Calrissan_ , and _the_ best twist in cinematic history. What does _Jedi_ have? Fuckin’ Ewoks.”

“Ewoks are _iconic_.”

“Ewoks are _stupid_.”

“But _Endor_.”

“But _Hoth_. There’s a reason people always call the best, grittiest installment of a trilogy the _Empire_ of the series.”

“And I can appreciate that,” I start. “But isn’t there something to be valued in a happy ending as well?”

“Spoken like a true princess.”

Maybe I’m just being hopeful, but her tone sounds a little closer to teasing than genuinely resentful.

“I’m only saying, I like the resolution of _Jedi_. It ties everything up so nicely. And the overall theme you’re intended to take away from the films is hope and love and … er, you know, all that.” I can feel myself running out of steam. “Which is what Jedi leaves you with a sense of most of all.”

She doesn’t answer right away, and I cough, and just as she’s turning her full attention to my face again the door opens and the massive secret service agent, Cash, is here.

“False alarm,” he breathes. “Some dumbass kids brought fireworks for their friend.” He looks down at us, flat on our backs and blinking up at him, and I have a momentary flashback to the two of us lying in nearly the same position just a week ago covered in buttercream. “This looks cozy,” he adds.

“Yep, we’re really bonding,” Alexandria says. She reaches out a hand and Cash hauls her to her feet like she weighs nothing.


	10. Ch2 - part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex gives Harley her number.

Outside Kensington Palace, we are preparing for Alexandria to head back stateside when she pulls my unlocked phone out of my hand and navigates to the contacts page. I stare at her, dumbstruck, as she swiftly enters her information before I can swipe my phone back from her.

“Here,” Alexandria says. “That’s my number. If we’re gonna keep this up, it’s going to get annoying to keep going through handlers. Just text me. We’ll figure it out.”

I stare at her dumbly, my stomach doing cartwheels in my chest as she presses the phone back into my hand. Are my palms sweating? Probably.

“Right,” I finally say. “Thank you.”

“No booty calls,” she tells me, and I nearly choke but divert it into a strangled laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter three is super short and separated into four sections, I'll probably post them all tomorrow :)
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	11. Ch3 - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley checks the headlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1/4 covering chapter 3!! In the next part we'll meet Velle (fem Pez) !!

I’m relieved when I scroll through the headlines on Monday morning. Not only have the masses bought our falsified friendship, they are absolutely eating it up. I skim through _People_ magazine’s exclusive story and idly wonder if Alexandria wants to barf reading the quotes they’ve pulled. Unfortunately, I suspect that she does.

I sigh as I switch tabs and begin sifting through a few blog posts, searching for Alexandria’s and my names. There’s one that’s made individual GIFs of nearly every moment of our _This Morning_ appearance. The two of us clasping hands, sharing smiles and knowing glances and really not looking fake at all.

I’ve got to hand it to her: she’s good.

 **omfg,** one commenter writes, **make out already.**

I sigh again, wondering how I have any oxygen left.


	12. Ch3 - part 2

Blessedly, my Velle is back in the country. Her signature knock rings through the converted music room and I’ve launched myself into her arms the moment the door’s swung open.

“Woah!” she cries, gamely taking on my added weight and returning my hug. “Babes, alright, I missed you too.”

Inexplicably, I feel tears prickle at the corners of my eyes as I detangle myself from her. I swat her on the arm, not unkindly.

“Don’t you _ever_ leave me alone here for a stretch like that again,” I scold. “Or I swear I’ll have you requisitioned back here and kept in the dungeons to hang out with me whenever I’m lonely.”

“You’re always lonely, H.”

“Shut your face.” I break into a grin. “It’s good to see you. How’s things with the foundation? How’s mum and dad?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Fine, lovely, the lot of them.” She narrows her eyes at me. “What I want to hear about is _you_.”

I groan. “Where should I begin?”

After I’ve caught her up on my brief stint as an instigator of an international feud, and my slightly longer stint as standing best friend of the FDOTUS, she whistles appreciatively.

“Christ, H, you’ve really stepped into it, eh? How could arguably the least controversial figure of the monarchy-” I quirk an eyebrow. “-right, second least, suppose you can’t take that title from Pippa, how could _you_ be the one to cause an international incident? And with Alex Claremont-Diaz, of all people! You’ve been waxing poetic about her since her mum got elected.”

“I have _not_ -”

“You have, and I won’t hear any argument about it.” My mouth snaps shut. I gesture for Velle to go on. She doesn’t. Her stare makes me squirm and finally, I can’t take it any longer. I start talking.

“I just don’t understand how she has the _energy_ to maintain such a one-sided grudge! I’ve been nothing but cordial to her, with the exception of that first meeting, and that’s it? No do-overs?”

“Have you considered that’s the _reason_ she resents you so much?” Velle proposes. I look at her incredulously, and she continues. “I mean, I dunno if you’ve noticed, but she has a bit of a frenetic energy about her, yeah? So, my thinking is that she’s looking for someone she can spar with, someone who will see her blood already boiling and turn the burner up another notch.”

I nod, letting this sink in. I hate that it makes sense, and I hate even more that I wasn’t the one to piece it together.

“H,” she says, soft, kind. “I think she’d like the real you rather a lot better than the one you’ve been presenting to her.” I move to protest, and she holds a hand up to stop me. “Just…think about it.”

Pat comes bounding into the room then and launches into Velle’s lap, effectively saving me from any more Big Conversations for the time being.


	13. Ch3 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and Harley build up a steady stream of communication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's interested, this is the spotify playlist i've made to listen to as i work on this. it's absolutely meant to be listened to on shuffle, not in order.   
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4J0Bod44hQOjtFX0yD3cea?si=9FiLoqrbTqymld4llaSMLQ  
> (rwrbgb is just red white & royal blue gender bend, which is the name this whole work has lived under on my computer for so long)

I wait what Velle assures me is a respectable amount of time before finally building up the courage to use Alexandria’s number. It’s rainy, per usual, and I’m cozied up in my apartment on the second floor of Kensington. Ben and Velle are both busy, which means it’s a comfort movie kind of day. I pause the screen on an image of one of the cuter Ewoks, which I personally think is quite generous of me, and snap a picture, careful not to let my bedraggled reflection show in the laptop screen.

**This bloke looks like you.**

**This is Harley, by the way.**

She doesn’t answer, and I spend the next week fretting that I’ve now managed to royally (ha) mess up both my in-person and text-message first impressions.

But then, just as I’m starting to forget about it completely, I receive a text back. It’s a snapshot of the cover of _People_ , showing me in a navy swimsuit on the beach in Australia.

**you have a lot of moles,** she writes. **is that a result of the inbreeding?**

It takes everything in me not to respond, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I was waiting to hear from her.

A couple of days later, however, I have my opportunity. I snap a screenshot of the _Daily Mail_ tweet that reads, _Is Alex Claremont-Diaz pregnant?_ and type **But we were ever so careful, love.**

As the weeks roll by, Alex and I text more and more frequently, in moments of monotony. I hear from her when she is in lectures at uni, and send her furtive messages from briefings and mandatory appearances and, once, which I absolutely shouldn’t have told her about, as I was receiving a spray tan alongside my insufferable sister. She teases me about that one for days.

I wish it could be something a little deeper than quips and bickering, but there is something to be said for the steady stream of communication we’ve built up between us. And I can’t help but revel in the way she seems totally alright showing me all of her neuroses, her manic ramblings on anything and everything that comes to mind.

More often than not, I find myself checking for a text bubble to pop up. Alexandria’s thoughts on English versus American television, Alexandria teasing me for a recent headline about me, a snap of an oil painting of some decrepit founding father with a rather undignified Snapchat filter plastered over his face.

 **I can’t help but think that any founding fathers’ ghosts still residing in the White House must absolutely loathe you** , I write.

**if you wouldnt have been burned at the stake by your forefathers, youre not living your life properly**

She is quick and witty and I find myself smiling at my phone every time I see her name pop up. Whenever this happens Ben gives me a knowing, parental smile, and says nothing.

Apparently, my worst fears were well founded in regards to my fact sheet. Alexandria is equal parts surprised and thrilled each time I correct one of the lies on the thing. Hers was, for the most part, truthful, though she excitedly adds details as I ask. For example, her first filibuster was at age nine, trying to force a Sea World orca trainer into an early retirement, and her guilty pleasure television show is Love Is Blind.

In return, I share my weird interests with her. One afternoon she gets me going and I spend a few hours lecturing her on classical mythology and constellations. Another, she makes the mistake of asking a question about sailing, then leaves my answer on read for about eight hours before responding with an icy **cool.**

She cusses like a sailor, and I wish it didn’t make me blush. At the same time, I hope that it never stops. She talks a lot about Kit. I’m always bringing up Ben. We commiserate on the trials and tribulations of growing up with an older brother as close as the both of us are with ours.

**was ben always trying to make you wrestle or strap you into his hockey gear?**

**Does Kit also insist upon stealing off of your plate like a Dickensian street urchin, when he’s more than enough on his own?**

Soon she’s familiar with Velle, who’s never far from my side when we’re actually based within the same borders. I can tell she’s in awe of my best friend, and I would be jealous if she weren’t correct. Velle is the most incredible person I’ve ever met, no holds barred.

It takes a while, but she starts sharing more and more of Noah and Kit with me. Noah is enigmatic and brilliant; Kit is quick and kind. I understand why she loves the both of them. I would tease her for sharing seemingly confidential information like Secret Service codenames, but really, who am I going to tell? And besides, I don’t want to risk staunching the flow of information she is suddenly so willing to share with me.

During one particularly painful meeting with Pippa, I look to Alexandria for a welcome distraction. **In world’s most boring meeting with Philippa. Don’t let the papers print lies about me after I’ve offed the both of us with only my tea saucer and a few cubes of sugar.**

I hope it will make her laugh. Even when I can’t hear it directly, knowing I’m responsible for that laugh makes the rest of my day so much more bearable.

Hours later, she responds: **was it a meeting about which of your cousins have to marry each other to take back casterly rock?**

 **Ha,** I respond. **It was about royal finances. I’ll be hearing Pippa’s voice saying the words “return on investment” in my nightmares for the rest of time.**

 **the harrowing struggle of managing the empire’s blood money,** comes her quick response.

I wait a few, trying to perfect my response so it is truthful without sounding boastful. I know she’ll like it, regardless.

**That was actually the crux of the meeting- I’ve tried to refuse my share of the crown’s money. Dad left us each more than enough, and I’d rather cover my expenses with that than the spoils of, you know, centuries of genocide. Philippa thinks I’m being ridiculous.**

**i am low-key impressed.**

I smile, and retype my answer thrice before sending it. **One does not foster a lifelong love of Star Wars without knowing an empire isn’t a good thing.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, please let me know what's working/isn't, any suggestions, etc ! i love writing a new pov for these two :)


	14. Ch3 - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek at one of FDOTUS & Princess Harley's text conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a nightmare to format and is essentially taken straight from the text. This is the last part of ch3, and 4 is gonna be four parts as well :)

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

30 Oct, 2019, 18:07

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**i hate that dress**

**What dress?**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**the one in the instagram you just posted**

**What’s wrong with it? It is literally just a grey dress.**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**exactly. try patterns sometime, and stop frowning at your phone like i know**

**you’re doing rn.**

**Patterns are considered a “statement.”**

**Royals aren’t supposed to make statements with what we wear.**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**do it for the gram**

**You are the thistle in the tender and sensitive arse crack of my life.**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**thanks!**

17 Nov, 2019, 16:04

**I just received a 5-kilo parcel of Ellen Claremont campaign buttons with your face** **on**

**them. Is** **this your idea of a prank?**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**just trying to brighten up that wardrobe, sunshine**

**I hope this gross miscarriage of campaign funds is worth it for you. My security thought**

**it was a bomb. Shaan almost called in the sniffer dogs.**

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**oh, definitely worth it. even more worth it now. tell shaan i say hi and i miss that**

**sweet sweet ass xoxoxo**

**I will not.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm up to ch11 with writing this, does anyone have any ideas what the Queen could be pressuring Harley to get a jump on in place of military service? I'm thinking maybe finding a husband, grad school, or she could offer for her to enlist if she refuses to date... I dunno, I suppose time will tell.


	15. Ch4 - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Turkey Calamity, 2019.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm too excited to get through Ch4!! Next part is wicked short, but then Christmas and New Years are parts three and four :)

I should’ve known not to expect a quiet evening to stay quiet.

 **THEY KNOW,** Alexandria’s text reads. **THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH.**

 **Please send photos** , I respond. 

Alexandria and I text nearly every day now, the time difference proving not to be much of an inconvenience at all since the both of us seem to be awake at all ungodly hours of the night.

I’m surprised she actually sends a photo of an (admittedly massive) turkey moments later.

 **I think he’s cute,** I type out quickly. The thing is, truthfully, vile.

**that’s because you can’t hear all the menacing gobbling.**

**Yes, famously the most sinister of all animal sounds, the gobble.**

I come dangerously close to flinging my phone across the room when it erupts in a ring with ALEXANDRIA CLAREMONT-DIAZ emblazoned across the screen. The moment I accept the call, she is speaking.

“You know what, you little shit, you can hear it for yourself and then tell me how you would handle this-’

“Alex?” I interrupt. I can hear that my voice is scratchy and shaking and silently curse myself for the added layer of vulnerability. “Have you really rung me at three o’clock in the morning to make me listen to a turkey?”

“Yes, obviously,” she says. “Jesus Christ, it’s like they can see into your _soul_. Cornbread knows my sins, Harls. Cornbread knows what I have done, and he is here to make me atone.”

She’s never called me Harls before. I don’t hate it. “Let’s hear the cursed gobble, then,” I say, feigning boredom.

“Okay, brace yourself.” I do. Nothing.

“Truly harrowing,” I say, gently but definitely mocking.

“No, hang on,” Alexandria says. “I’m gonna … I’m gonna get one to gobble.”

More silence. “Um,” she finally says. “How do you get a turkey to gobble?”

“Try gobbling,” I say, “and see if he gobbles back.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah. My dad used to take me to hunt wild turkeys, they’re huge here in the spring,” I say. “The trick is to get into the mind of the turkey.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“So,” I instruct her. “Do as I say. You have to get quite close to the turkey, like, physically.”

Rustling over the phone as she follows my instruction. “Okay.”

“Make eye contact with the turkey. Do you have It?”

Silence as she positions herself. “Yeah.”

“Right, now hold it,” I tell her. “Connect with the turkey, earn the turkey’s trust … befriend the turkey …”

“Okay …”

“Buy a summer home in Majorca with the turkey …”

“Oh, I _fucking_ hate you!” she shouts as I laugh into the phone. From her end, an ear-piercing gobble rings through the air. She screams in return. “ _Goddamnit_! Did you hear that?”

“Sorry, what?” I say. “I’ve been stricken deaf.”

“Oh, you are the _worst_ ,” Alexandria says. “Have you ever even been turkey hunting?”

“Lex, you can’t even hunt them in Britain,” I tell her, testing out my own nickname for her, hoping she doesn’t shoot me down.

Her next words are muffled. “I hope Cornbread does kill me.”

“No, all right, I did hear it, and it was … proper frightening,” I say. “So, I understand. Where’s Kit for all this?”

“Ugh, he’s out with Noah, and when I texted them for backup, they sent back, and I quote, ‘hahahahahahahaha good luck with that,’ and then a turkey emoji and a poop emoji.” She reads this in a monotone. I stifle a laugh.

“That’s fair,” I say with a solemn nod, even though she cannot see it. “So what are you going to do now? Are you going to stay up all night with them?”

“I don’t know! I guess! I don’t know what else to do!”

“You couldn’t just go sleep somewhere else? Aren’t there a thousand rooms in that house?” I silently hope she doesn’t remark on my own living quarters.

“Okay, but, uh, what if they escape? I’ve seen Jurassic Park. Did you know birds are directly descended from raptors? That’s a scientific fact. Raptors in my bedroom, Harley. And you want me to sleep like they’re not gonna bust out of their enclosures and take over the island the minute I close my eyes? Okay. Maybe your white ass.”

“I’m going to have you offed,” I threaten without malice. “You’ll never see it coming. Our assassins are trained in discretion. They will come in the night, and it will look like a humiliating accident.”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation?”

“Toilet heart attack.”

“Jesus.”

“You’ve been warned.” I’m struggling to keep my tone serious.

“I thought you’d kill me in a more personal way. Silk pillow over my face, slow and gentle suffocation. Just you and me. Sensual.”

I splutter. “Ha. Well.”

“Anyway,” Alexandria continues. “It doesn’t matter because one of these goddamn turkeys is gonna kill me first.”

"I really don’t think- _oh, hello there.”_ Pat nuzzles up beside me and I give her ears a scratch. “ _Who’s my sweet girl? Yes, it’s you._ Pat says hello.”

“Hi, Pat.”

“She- Oi! _Not_ for you Mr. Wobbles! Those are _mine_!” Mr. Wobbles meows indignantly as I shove him aside. “ _No_ , Mr. Wobbles, you bastard!”

“What in the fuck is a Mr. Wobbles?”

“Ben’s idiot cat,” I tell her. “The thing weighs a ton and is still trying to steal my Jaffa Cakes. He and Pat are mates.

“What are you even doing right now?”

“What am _I_ doing? I was trying to _sleep_.”

“Okay, but you’re eating Jabba Cakes, so.”

“ _Jaffa_ Cakes, my _God_ ,” I correct her, trying not to chuckle at the abrupt image of Jabba the Hut in an apron she’s managed to conjure. “I’m having my entire life haunted by a deranged American wastrel and a pair of turkeys, apparently.”

“And?”

I sigh. I was hoping the dig would throw her off course. “And … don’t laugh.”

“Oh, yay,” she responds, sounding eager.

“I was watching _Great British Bake Off_.”

“Cute. Not embarrassing, though. What else?”

I try not to let my heart flutter. She meant it in a teasing way, she meant it in a teasing way. Okay. “I, er, might be … wearing one of those peely face masks,” I blurt.

“Oh my God, I knew it!”

“ _Instant_ regret.”

“I _knew_ you had one of those crazy expensive Scandinavian skin care regimens. Do you have that, like, eye cream with diamonds in it?”

“No!” I protest. Alexandria stifles a laugh on the other end of the line. “And you can’t honestly tell me you don’t do face masks as well.”

“Nope,” she says, popping the P. “These looks are au naturale, baby.”

“ _Right_ ,” I say, unconvinced. “Well, we can’t all be blessed with your good genes, and I have an appearance tomorrow, all right? I wasn’t expecting to be scrutinized.”

“I’m not scrutinizing,” she says. There’s a pause. “So you like _Bake Off_ , huh?”

“It’s just so soothing,” I explain. “Everything’s all pastel-colored and the music is so relaxing and everyone’s so lovely to one another. And you learn so much about different types of biscuits, Alexandria. So much. When the world feels especially awful, such as when you’re trapped in a Great Turkey Calamity, you can put it on and just vanish into biscuit land.”

“Alex,” she corrects, sounding more like a reflex than anything else. I’m glad she can’t see my smile. “And American cooking competitions are nothing like that. They’re all sweaty and like, dramatic death music and intense camera cuts. _Bake Off_ makes _Chopped_ look like the fucking Manson tapes.”

“I feel like this explains loads about our difference,” I say, and am rewarded with a small laugh.

“You know,” Alexandria says. “You’re kind of surprising.”

That makes me pause. “In what way?”

“In that you’re not a totally boring asshole.”

“Wow,” I laugh. “I’m honored.”

“I guess you have your depths,” she goes on.

“You thought I was just some dumb blonde, didn’t you?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I knew you weren’t dumb. Just … boring.” I wait for her to continue. “I mean, you named your dog Pat. That’s pretty boring.”

“After Pat Benatar.”

“I-” she cuts herself off. “Are you serious? What the hell? Why not call her Benatar, then? That would be infinitely cooler”

“Bit on the nose, isn’t it? A girl should have some element of mystery.”

“I guess,” she agrees, then lets out a massive yawn.

“Alex.” I try to make my tone stern.

“What?”

“The turkeys are not going to _Jurassic Park_ you. You’re not the bloke from _Seinfeld_. You’re Jeff Goldblum. Go to sleep.”

“You go to sleep.” I trick myself into thinking I can hear a smile in her voice. I wonder if she can hear mine.

“I will,” I say, “as soon as you get off the phone, won’t I?”

“Okay,” she says, stalling. I don’t know how to end a conversation on the phone with her, and clearly, she doesn’t either. “But, like, what if they gobble again?”

“ _Alex_.”

“ _What_?”

“Go sleep in Kit’s room, you numpty.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” I say. Then, finally, “So. Good night.”

“Cool,” she returns. “Good night.”

She actually hangs up this time. I throw my phone down on the pillow beside me and exhale, long and slow. I still have a stupid smile plastered on my face, and I’m glad I’m alone in a dark room and don’t have to worry about trying to hide it. I get up and go to remove my face mask and brush my teeth.

While I’m still standing at the sink I hear a text come in and nearly rub my eyebrows clean off in my rush to finish scrubbing my face and run to check it. Alexandria.

**i sent pics of turkeys so i deserve pics of your animals too.**

“ _Oi_! Pat, come here! Come to Momma!” Pat trots happily when I call. I settle back into bed with Mr. Wobbles perched happily beside my head, and snap for Pat to lay on my other side. I retake the snap twice before finally deciding it is sufficient to send.

 **This is what I must endure,** I type. And then:

**Good night, honestly.**


	16. Ch4 - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex harasses Harley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's be real- this is a bit of a filler chapter. next up is christmas :)

I haven’t heard from Alexandria in a few days when my phone dings.

09 Dec, 2019, 01:53

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**yo there’s a bond marathon on and did you know your dad was a total babe**

**I BEG YOU TO NOT**


	17. Ch4 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley talks Alex off the ledge.

Christmas Eve comes and goes without much fanfare. There’s a formal meal with Nan, Mum, Ben and Philippa and her almost painfully bland new husband and myself. Conversation is stilted and rehearsed and really not all that out of the ordinary for my family. As it’s wrapping up, I find myself once again ridiculously grateful to share my living quarters with Ben- we’ll have plenty of material to laugh about tonight, at least.

The two of us are settled in with a plate of biscuits and a bottle of brandy, Ben doing a near flawless impersonation of Pippa’s husband trying to connect with Nan, when my phone starts to ring. I look left to the clock on the mantle: 02:24.

“What could I possibly have done to have brought this upon myself now?” I say by way of greeting, opting for the most hyperbolic option imaginable.

“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve and everything,” Alexandria’s voice is shrill and uncertain. I toss a look at the clock again but figure it’s not the best time for corrections. “You probably have like, family stuff, I’m just realizing. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Wow, this is why I don’t have friends. I’m the worst. Sorry, uh, I’ll just-”

“Alex, Christ,” I interrupt her, hoping I’m interrupting the intrusive, unkind thoughts as well. “It’s fine. It’s half two here, everyone’s gone to bed. Except Ben. Say hi, Ben.”

“Hi, Alex!” Ben shouts, giddy despite his dead sobriety. “Harley’s got her candy-cane jim-jams on and-”

“Alright, that’s quite enough!” I squeal, shoving a pillow into Ben’s face. He laughs, clear and jolly. I turn my attention back to the First Daughter. Some quick math tells me it’s about half nine, her time. “What’s happening, then?”

“Sorry,” she blurts. “I know this is weird, and you’re with your brother and everything, and, like, ugh. I kind of didn’t have anyone else to call who would be awake? And I know we’re, uh, not _really_ friends _-_ ” my heart sinks just a little but I remain quiet “-and we don’t really talk about this stuff, but my dad came for Christmas, and he and my mom are like fucking tiger sharks fighting over a baby seal when you put them in the same room together for more than an hour, and they got in this huge fight, and it shouldn’t _matter_ , because they’re already divorced and everything, and I don’t know why I lost my shit, but I wish they could just give it a rest for _once_ so we could have one single normal holiday, you know?”

I’m not sure how to respond for a long while. Ben is looking at me expectantly, wanting me to relay the information, but something tells me this is for my ears only, that Alexandria doesn’t open up readily like this often. That this is something to be cherished. “Hang on,” I finally say. “Ben, can I have a minute? Hush. Yes, you can take the biscuits.” He leaves, pleased with the compromise. I finally turn my full attention to the phone. “All right, I’m listening.”

She exhales deeply and plows onward. Her voice rises and falls as she tells me everything- about her parents’ divorce, and how she came home one day and her dad was just gone- and about the years since, and adjusting to her new normal, and how as much as it could be worse, she just misses the days when it was _better_. I let her talk and talk, genuinely cataloguing away every sacred word.

Finally, she pauses long enough for me to get a thought in. There’s nothing I can say to make it suck any less, so I settle on the truth. “It sounds like you did your best.”

Silence, followed by the muffled sound of a knock on Alexandria’s bedroom door. “Ah- okay, um, thank you. Seriously. I, ah, I’ve gotta go-” she says, keeping her voice low.

“Alex-” I start.

“Thank you,” she repeats. “I, um, fuck. Thank you. Merry Christmas. Night.” She hangs up before I can get another word in. I stare at the screen, stricken dumb and smiling at it idiotically. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next part is new Year's!!


	18. Ch4 - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley takes a chance.

It’s less than twenty-four hours later when I receive a direct message from Kit.

**Hi, Harley. I know Alex sucks, and it’s last minute, but will you come to ours for New Year’s? It’s a gala sort of event and of course we’ll give you a plus one. Let me know whenever.**

I respond within an embarrassingly short time. **Velle and I are in. Dress code?**

I shoot a message to Velle immediately afterward. **Clear your schedule for NYE.**

**Ooh, delicious,** I receive back moments later. **Who/what are we doing?**

**Hush. We are going to the Young America New Year’s Eve Gala.**

**yES**

I bury my face in my hands, futilely hoping this wasn’t a mistake.

So it’s the day of the party, and my outfit has been carefully curated by a collaboration between Carmen and Velle, and is being hidden from my sight until tonight in a dark garment bag draped across the leather seat opposite me on our transatlantic flight.

Velle snaps a photo of the two of us, catching me slightly off-guard. My shoes are off, and I’m resting my feet up on the window. I’m wearing my favorite jumper, one I stole from Ben years ago and he’s since given up trying to reclaim. I halfheartedly demand to see the final result before she posts it.

 **USA bound!** the caption reads, followed by, **#YoungAmericaGala2019**

I nod curtly and return my attention to the battered novel in my hands: a well-loved copy of Jane Austen’s _Emma_ from my uni days.

I’ve gotten through less than a chapter when a ding pulls my attention away.

Alexandria Claremont-Diaz

**ATTN: will be wearing a burgundy velvet gown tonight. please do not attempt to steal my shine. you will fail**

**and i will be embarrassed for you.**

I don’t bother waiting a respectable amount of time before typing out my response.

**Wouldn’t dream of it.**

After that my afternoon is a blur. Velle is somehow constantly camera-ready, but upon landing I am quickly whisked into a hastily set up makeup studio in our hotel suite to be primped and prepped to represent the crown on an international stage. When I am finally released, my tawny locks are arranged in a tousled half-up-bun sort of thing that would appear effortless if I weren’t painfully aware of the sixteen (yes, I counted) bobby pins keeping it in place.

I wonder how Alexandria’s hair will be styled tonight. I wonder what she’ll think of _my_ hair. I physically shake my head to disperse the thought. _It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. Don’t blow this._

Velle comes sashaying into the room, all neon hair and chocolatey skin and effortless poise. If I didn’t love her so damn much, I would hate her. She informs me that we simply _must_ arrive to this thing fashionably late, and whisks me away to get dressed.

I am, actually, quite pleasantly surprised with my ensemble for the evening. It’s a gown, yes, but my heels measure about two inches at the most, and the coppery fabric compliments the slight tan I’ve picked up in Australia. I am thankful it has straps; the slit is just the right length to allow easy movement without opening me up to the possibility of an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction, and the halter neckline accentuates my athletic shoulders without making me look like a beast.

It is an overthinker’s dream.

The two of us sidle into the back of a limousine, and Velle nudges me with her shoulder.

“So,” she starts, her tone deadly serious. “Are you nervous?”

I toss her a grim look and pry the cork out of the bottle of champagne clutched in my sweaty palms. Something about the POP seems considerably less jovial in the stale silence surrounding us. Her expression turns somber as she reaches behind her and grasps two flutes without looking. God, she is a woman of many talents.

Velle is wearing a short leather dress with an almost violently pink, patterned bomber jacket over it, and I am- not for the first time- fiercely grateful for my best friend’s loud sense of style and self. As we enter the residence, all eyes are on her.

That is, except for mine. Mine immediately hone in on Alexandria, and _God_. She warned me not to try to upstage her, but even her warped sense of self must have known that wouldn’t be possible. She is wearing velvet, as promised, and she is more artfully exposed skin that not; all plunging necklines and swooping backs and daring slits. I nearly stumble over my own feet, and Velle reaches a hand out to steady me.

“All right, babe?” she whispers under her breath. I don’t have any words at my disposal at the moment, so I settle for a nod.

Alexandria’s eyes lock with mine, and a smile creeps across my face. I wrap my fingers around Velle’s arm, gaining confidence, and tug her after me.

“You look lovely,” she says as soon as I am close enough to hear, and it must be the bubbles from the champagne fluttering beneath my sternum, and definitely not anything else.

“Thought I may be escorted off the premises for anything less exciting,” I respond coolly, silently congratulating myself on the sheer number of words I’ve managed to string together coherently.

“And who is this?” Kit asks, materializing at Alexandria’s side and looking pointedly at Velle.

“Ah, yes, you’ve not formally met, have you?” I say, suddenly recalling my manners. “Kit, Alex, this is Dearbhla Okonjo.”

“Velle,” she amends cheerfully, pressing a kiss to Alexandria’s cheek before turning her full attention to Kit. “Please, do let me know if this is out of line,” she begins, and I feel the color drain from my face. “but you are positively the most exquisite being in this room. Would you allow me to get your next drink for you? Preferably something expensive.” She waggles her eyebrows at Kit, and he looks like he has absolutely no idea what is happening to him or how to respond.

“Uh,” Alexandria starts.

“Well, aren’t you a charmer?” Kit says.

“And you are divine.”

The two of them disappear into the crowd, and despite years of exposure I am in awe of Velle’s easy confidence, how she carries herself like she is about six inches taller than her actual stature, and manages not to look ridiculous in doing so.

“That girl,” I start, turning to face Alexandria. “has been begging me to introduce her to your brother since I first danced with him at the wedding.”

“ _Seriously_?”

“Seriously,” I nod solemnly. “I was actually becoming quite concerned she would do something truly outlandish soon. I suspect she’s been pricing skywriters behind my back.”

She laughs then, real and unguarded. “Well, come on,” she says, wrapping her fingers around my elbow. “I’m already two whiskeys in. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

Whiskey? She just keeps surprising me. As we cross toward the bar, I am painfully aware of the eyes of all those we pass trailing us, conversations dropping off midsentence at the sight of the princess of England and the First Daughter, actually together, getting along. I hate the idea of trying to live up to such wild expectations, but Alexandria seems to revel in it, if her posture and expression are anything to go by. Desperate to keep some part of her to myself, I think back to all of our private conversations; Star Wars and _Bake Off_ and the Great Turkey Calamity.

Alexandria presses a drink into my hand and I take it without inquiring about what exactly it is. As long as she’s by my side, I’m not afraid. She pulls me round and introduces me to each new group of people, jaws going slack each time and me blushing unfortunately and trying to recover gracefully. I try to keep my face from betraying me, go for that neutral but not unpleasant look I’ve worked so hard to perfect, the one that photographs well enough without letting anyone know anything real, anything personal.

Kit gives a brilliant speech about the immigration fund that tonight’s proceeds are going to support, and as I’m looking for Alex to comment on how impressed I am by her brother, I realize she’s disappeared from my side and is now gleefully involved in a conga line. I’m only left looking around helplessly for a few moments before Kit whisks me away to the bar, telling me all sorts of embarrassing stories about Alexandria growing up. I know I’ll never share them with her, for fear of physical retaliation, and it feels nice to gain another piece of her that I can keep for myself.

At some point, the band needs a break and the entertainment switches over to a DJ who seems to be very attached to early 2000s hip-hop. I drift back to Alexandria, grateful for an anchor in a very tumultuous and unfamiliar sea of sweating bodies.

“You don’t dance?” Alexandria half-shouts up into my ear. I really wish I knew what to do with my arms right now. The room is swaying- isn’t alcohol supposed to _lower_ your inhibitions? Why am I still so _stiff_?

“No, I do,” I finally answer. “It’s just, er, the family-mandated ballroom dancing lessons didn’t exactly cover this?”

“C’mon! It’s, like, in the hips. You have to loosen up.” She reaches down and grasps both of my hips, and my body reacts before my brain does, erupting into goose pimples and freezing up completely. “That’s the opposite of what I said.”

“Alex, I don’t-” I try.

“Here,” she sways her hips in time with the music. “Watch me.”

I take a gulp of champagne so she doesn’t notice me picking my jaw up off the proverbial floor. “I am.”

Blessedly, the song finally fades out. It is replaced by one that sounds almost identical to me, but Alexandria’s face absolutely lights up, and it is as endearing as it is terrifying.

“Shut up,” she yells. “Shut your dumb face, this is my shit!” She throws her hands up in the air and I somehow simultaneously mourn the loss of contact and breathe a sigh of relief. I stare at her blankly as the rest of the dance floor cheers along with her. She looks back at me.

“Did you seriously never go to an awkward muddle school dance and watch a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song?”

I cling to my champagne flute and respond, “You absolutely must know I did not.”

She laughs just a little, hopefully with me and not at my expense, and flings an arm out to snatch Noah from the huddle beside us. “Noah! _Noah_! Harley has never watched a bunch of teenagers dry hump to this song!”

“ _What_?”

“ _Please_ tell me nobody is going to try to dry hump _me_ ,” I say. What I really mean is please tell me a stranger isn’t going to try to dry hump me, but to be honest the distinction doesn’t feel worth making at the moment.

“Oh my God, Harley,” Alexandria yells, grabbing me by the strap of my dress. I hope she can’t feel my pulse under her fingers. “you have to dance. You _have to_ dance. You need to understand this formative American coming-of-age experience.”

I resist the urge to tell her that sounds like the literal embodiment of my nightmares. Noah grabs Alexandria and spins round in front of her, grinding up on her front with reckless abandon. Alex whoops appreciatively and plants her hands on his waist. The crowd is moving around me at a suffocating pace and it feels as if there’s at least a seventy percent chance I’m going to die.

All I can think to say is “Did that man just say ‘ _sweat drop down my balls_ ’?”

Alex cackles, and my eyes sweep the floor desperately. An awful lot of celebrities I very vaguely recognize are very literally _bumping uglies_ on the dance floor. To my direct left, Velle is in the middle of an adoring crowd, following the instructions of the singer in a horrifying but definitely confident manner. I turn my attention back to Alexandria just as she’s grabbing a shot off of a passing tray and tossing it back. She pouts at me and Christ she has great lips. She wiggles her ass, and in return I try my best, just barely bopping my head and bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“Fuck it up, babe!” she yells, and I can’t help but laugh. I give my hips an experimental shake and am rewarded with a quirked eyebrow.

Before long I find myself bypassing glasses entirely and cradling an entire bottle of Moët & Chandon. Nearly every time I look to Alexandria her eyes are already on me, and I try to remind myself not to look into it too seriously. I find myself more willing to dance when the promise of her hands on me is the most prominent, and I hope that she doesn’t notice this correlation. She probably does. She’s too smart not to.

At a minute to midnight everyone is crowded together, arms slung across shoulders blindly. I can see Noah screaming straight into Alexandria’s ear and she slides her hands around his neck and latches her mouth onto his. My heart sinks somewhere around my pelvis as Noah kisses her back enthusiastically, the two tangling their fingers in one another’s hair and not at all shy about slipping tongue into the nonexistent space between them.

When Alexandria’s eyes focus once again, they find mine, and I wipe my face of all expression. She grins at me, looking pleased with herself, and I turn my attention to my champagne. _Happy fucking New Year,_ I think to myself grimly as I accept a kiss from the bottle. I turn away, for once breaking eye contact first.

I’m far too warm, and my pulse is far too fast, and Alexandria’s hair looks far too soft and her lips far too kissable. I need air. Desperately. I slide out of a side door and down into the garden, my blood alcohol level working double-time to cancel out the chill in the Washington air.

I plant myself beneath a tree and turn my attention to the stars, thinking back to the lessons my dad gave me when he gifted me my first telescope. Orion. Orion is easy to find, no matter where you are in the world. I look for the three consecutive stars that mark his belt, for the anchor to something known and safe, and am met only with clouds.

The sound of someone stumbling behind me startles me out of my self-pitying reverie. I turn, expecting to see some B-list celebrity puking into a bush, or maybe a White House intern sneaking a cigarette away from judgmental eyes. Instead I lock eyes with Alexandria Claremont-Diaz herself.

“What’re you doing here?” she says, trudging through the snow to join me beneath the tree.

I try to focus my eyes on her face as a whole and not just on her perfect, slightly swollen lips, but then I can’t recall exactly how to do that while looking normal. I’m afraid I land on something closer to cross-eyed. “Looking for Orion,” I finally answer, truthfully.

Alexandria huffs out a laugh. “You must really be bored with the commoners to come out here and stare at the clouds.”

“’m not bored,” I mumble. “What are you doing out here? Doesn’t America’s sweetheart have some swooning crowds to beguile?”

“Says the fairytale fucking princess,” she answers, smirking up at me. Her heels bring her closer to my eye level than usual.

I pull a face I’m sure is nasty, but I honestly don’t care enough to try to mask it. “Hardly.”

The back of my hand brushes against hers, and I feel a little zip of energy pass between us. I look out the corner of my eye, cataloguing her face. Full brows. Fuller lips. Dark, soulful eyes. Square jaw. Rounded nose. I distantly recognize that I don’t feel cold when I’m looking at her, and wonder vaguely if there’s any correlation to be found there.

“You didn’t really answer my question, though,” Alex presses.

I groan and rub my hand on my temple, careful not to smear the work around my eyes that I had to sit still for an hour to get accomplished prior to this. “You can never leave well enough alone, can you?” I ask. I let me head lean back and rest against the trunk of the tree. “Sometimes it gets a bit…much,” I finally finish.

Alexandria shifts her weight so we’re shoulder to shoulder, and leans against the tree as well. She must be cold, but she doesn’t complain.

“D’you ever wonder,” I start, not really even sure why I’m still talking. “what it’s like to be some anonymous person out in the world?”

She looks up at me and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Just, you know … If your mum weren’t the president and you were just an ordinary girl living an ordinary life, what things might be like? What you’d be doing instead?”

“Ah,” she says. She looks like she’s thinking hard about how she wants to respond. She finally flicks one slender wrist dismissively. “Well, I mean, obviously I’d be a model. I’ve been on the cover of Teen Vogue twice. These genetics transcend all circumstance.” I roll my eyes and bite back a comment about her height likely disqualifying her from the runway. “What about you?”

For some reason, the truth is what comes out. “I’d be a writer.”

She gives a little chuckle, but doesn’t look surprised. “Can’t you do that?”

“Not exactly seen as a worthwhile pursuit for a member of the royal family,” I remark dryly, bitterly. “My role’s to produce heirs and, if I’m lucky, get involved in the family’s charitable dealings. Nobody wants to hear any verses about my quarter-life angst.”

She doesn’t answer right away, and I continue before my nerve can leave me. “I’d date more, probably, as well.”

She laughs outright at that. “Right, because it’s so hard to get a date as a princess.”

I turn my gaze back to her, hoping it’s not as sharp as it feels. “You’d be surprised.”

“How? You’re not exactly lacking for options.”

I stare at her longer, steeling myself, not dragging my gaze away even when it feels like I should. “The options I’d like …” I’m dragging my words out, trying to postpone the inevitable, even though I set the ball rolling. “They don’t quite seem to be _options_ at all.”

Alexandria blinks. “What?”

Does she know? She must know. I push onward, feeling like ants are crawling under my skin. “I’m saying that I have … people … who interest me.” I turn my body toward her completely, loading each word with meaning, begging her silently not to _make_ me say it. “But I shouldn’t pursue them. At least, not in my position.”

Her gaze is completely uncomprehending. Hellooo, Alexandria? The lights are on, but nobody seems to be home.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” she finally says.

“You don’t?” She must.

“No.”

“You really don’t?”

“I really, really don’t.” I genuinely can’t tell if she is being obtuse or is genuinely fucking clueless, and am startled by the realization that I don’t care which it is.

I look skyward, like perhaps an alternate answer will present itself from the heavens. One does not.

“Christ, you are as thick as it gets,” I say, and I grab her face in both of my hands and press my lips to hers.

For a few horrifying seconds, she remains frozen, and my brain moves through a thousand thoughts at once, but somehow not one of them is _Stop_.

Her lips feel like everything I’ve imagined and more, her taste is something between whiskey and cherry, and of _course_ she wears flavored lip gloss. She leans into the kiss timidly, opens her lips slightly, and I enthusiastically return the gesture, pushing my tongue against hers, and _Christ_ , I didn’t think it was possible for this to be worth over four years of foreplay, but it absolutely is. I push my hands into her dark curls, mindful not to ruin the style I’m sure took longer than mine, but definitely not gentle. I pull at the roots on the back of her head and a little moan escapes her lips, and-

All at once, the sound brings me crashing back to earth. What am I doing? What am I _doing_? I release my grip on her and all but push her away from me. And I mutter something that sounds like fuck, and a clipped apology, and turn away before I can look her in the eye because I know that if I do, I won’t be able to tear myself away a second time. I fly down the path and around the corner, never allowing myself to slow or look back.

Once I’m inside, I beeline for Velle and grab her by the elbow. Her look contorts from confusion to irritation to understanding in what must be record time as she searches my eyes. Whatever she finds there must be sufficient to convince her to peel away from Kit and follow me to the car waiting by the PPOs.

“ _Babes_ ,” she whispers softly as soon as we’re safely in the back of the limousine, but I shake her hand off of me and fix my gaze on the clouds outside my window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearbhla is an Irish name pronounced derv-lah  
> This is the last part of chapter four, five is also four sections, all of which are pretty short. I'll probably put two up tomorrow and two the next day.   
> As always, thanks for reading and let me know any thoughts :)


	19. Ch5 - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley is overthinking, and Ben is worried

For the next week, I am utterly useless. Alexandria is the only thing I can think about. Alexandria’s hair, Alexandria’s skin, Alexandria’s lips, Alexandria’s _moan_ -

“Oi!” I snap my attention back to the meeting and realize I’ve been shredding the agenda Nan’s event planner provided us. I still my hands and Ben throws a pained expression my way. He nudges my foot with his under the table and angles his paper so I can glance at it as well.

After we’re dismissed, Ben gets a vicelike grip on my elbow and bodily yanks me into an alcove. “Where are you?” he demands, searching my eyes. I push aside the urge to look away.

The thing is, Alexandria has been trying to contact me actually quite a bit more than is the norm we’ve fallen into. Unfortunately, every time she tries my blood pressure spikes and my palms start to sweat and I want to hurl myself down the steps of my grandmother’s palace. So. I haven’t answered. As much as the radio silence sucks, I know I couldn’t face the rejection she’s trying to hit me with, couldn’t explain it away in any way that would actually be believable. 

“It’s nothing. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t pry. Should I thank him for that? Probably not. I think he already knows, anyhow.


	20. Ch5 - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Velle have a chat.

So I hurl myself into my work with Velle. And I don’t think about Alexandria. I don’t. I spend every minute of my day not thinking about Alexandria. But all of that energy spent actively _not_ thinking about her kind of in a wraparound way means I’m constantly thinking about her.

I wonder what she’s doing, and I want so badly to reach out, to just leap past whatever awkward, painful conversation I know is waiting on the other end of the phone, and go back to what we had before all this. Before I let my guard down for five godforsaken minutes and ruined everything.

This is where my mind is when Velle yanks the cork out of a bottle of red wine and swigs straight from the bottle. I smile when she offers it up to me and do the same. “So,” she says, pushing the stack of Okonjo Foundation papers aside.

“So,” I repeat. I have a sinking feeling I know what she’s about to ask me about, but I’m not going to make it any easier for her.

“Do you wanna tell me what the hell’s been going on with you lately?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _H_.”

And I’m tired. I’m so tired of being trapped inside my own head. I open my mouth and everything spills out, at first just all of the thoughts that’ve been running around my brain the last week, but soon I’m telling her about kissing Alexandria and how I can’t get her out of my head and how I’ve been feeling this magnetic pull towards her since the first time I met her and it’s just been getting harder to ignore the better I get to know her and-

It’s more a lack of oxygen that forces me to stop than that I’ve gotten everything I needed to off my chest. I peel my eyes from where they’ve been glued to the wine bottle’s label and lock with Velle. There’s no surprise there, no irritation or disappointment or any of the thousand other things I was terrified to see. She looks … kind? Empathetic? Warm.

“Babes,” she says, and she lays her hand over mine, slender fingers gently caressing mine. “You know I’ve … known this … about you for quite some time, yeah?”

I hesitate, then nod. I’ve never formally come out to her, and she’s never formally come out to me, but there’s always been an understanding that neither of us falls on the STRAIGHT end of the spectrum.

“And you know I know you better than anyone? Except Ben, maybe,” she adds as an afterthought.

I laugh. “You definitely know a few things I don’t want to talk to my brother about.”

She grins crookedly back at me. “Right. So, uh, this hasn’t exactly been a secret, H. You’ve been into Alex for years now. I thought we were, like, past that. Like, that was a fundamental truth. Like that red wine is better than white, or that your sister’s a bit of a twat.”

“V!” I protest halfheartedly.

“It’s true,” she insists. “Anyway, that’s not what’s important here. I love you, and I appreciate you telling me about Alex.” She squeezes my hand and gets a glint in her eye that I’m not sure I like. “So, like, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The _kiss_ , you numpty!”

“Oh. Oh! It was, ah, kind of perfect?”

“Yeah? She kiss you back? Was there tongue?”

“ _Velle_ -”

“I need to know!”

I hide my face in my hands, blushing furiously. I’ve never felt the need to be prudish about this sort of thing with Velle, but there’s never really been any feelings attached. It feels wrong to share this with anyone but Alex, but since Alex clearly doesn’t want to share it with me…

“Ugh, fine, okay, yes. She kind of froze at first, but then she kissed me back. And yes, there was tongue. It was … nice,” I can feel myself grinning idiotically and can’t seem to make myself care enough to wipe the smile off my face.


	21. Ch5 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley goes on a date.

It’s actually Velle who comes up with the idea to set me up with somebody. There was some concern that it was becoming a bit too apparent that my thoughts were always, always with the First Daughter, and Velle had a friend of a friend who owed her a favor and who needed a bit of good press. And there’s no quicker way to climb the tabloid ranks than to be spotted on a date with a princess.

So here I am, sitting opposite a very generically handsome blond at a very public café, pretending not to notice the _People_ photographer that my grandmother’s people tipped off about this date. He’s perfectly pleasant, really. His name is Dylan, because _of course_ it is, but he is a decent conversationalist, and I do like the way that he looks at me. But really, all this is serving to do is reinforce what I already know; I cannot fake this. I’ve never been able to, and I especially can’t now, not when I’ve felt, when I’ve _tasted_ what it could be like with Alexandria if she only felt the same way. I heave an almighty sigh and he stops mid-sentence. Fuck, that was rude of me.

But there are appearances to keep up, so after our tab is settled (I feel guilty about his paying when my nan is the literal fucking queen of England, but whatever) I let him take my hand in his and lead me behind the café. I rock up on my toes to plant a chaste kiss to his lips, and _nope_ , definitely not the same. He brushes a bit of my hair behind my ear and I hope that my blush looks like it’s because I’m enamored, and not because I’m holding in the ridiculous urge to giggle at how robotic the action feels.

When it seems that the photographer’s got enough to run with, I squeeze his hand. “Thank you for this,” I say, earnest. “It was lovely.”

“My absolute pleasure,” he responds. “I’d love to do it again sometime? If you’re up for that?”

“I, ah. Right. Well, I’ll have to go through my handlers to find out my schedule, and-”

He presses a finger to my lips to shush me, and seriously, _what the hell?_ then says, “Of course. Don’t feel rushed, just get back to me whenever.”

I take a small step backward to break his skin’s contact with my mouth. “Right. Thank you, for being so, er … considerate.”

“Of course,” he replies. “You’re worth it.”

I heroically prevent myself from barfing all over his shoes. 


	22. Ch5 - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley sees the issue of People featuring her and Alex.

Velle slides an issue of People across the table to me. “Nice job,” she says, and I’m fairly certain she’s not teasing. “Oh, your girlfriend’s on page fifteen, as well.”

I nearly rip through the pages as I flip to see a photo of Alexandria alongside a write-up on how helpful she’s been to her mother’s campaign, and how dedicated she is to continuing her family’s legacy. It sounds stilted, and not at all like the way she really talks, passionate and rambling and witty, but I can tell that the sentiment behind the words is genuine.

I flip a bit further back and find my own spread: MEET PRINCESS HELENA’S MYSTERY MAN

The first of three photos accompanying the headline show us sitting across the table from one another, Dylan looking adoring and enamored, me looking at the very least interested in what he has to say. The second: the two of us hand in hand, him leading me round the corner to behind the coffee shop. The third: me reaching up to kiss him, his hand partially obscuring my face as it caresses my jaw. It’s a nice photo, really. More importantly, it’s convincing. We look like any two young people caught up in one another’s company, not thinking about anything but our mutual desire to be close to the other.

Hopefully it’s enough to keep Nan and Pippa off my back for a few weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It makes me so happy writing more of Harley and Velle's friendship :)  
> This is the last of chapter 5, chapter 6 is broken into five parts and is, in my opinion, where it really starts to get good ;)


	23. Ch6 - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex finally gets ahold of Harley.

I am an idiot. Especially when it comes to girls. No, actually, especially when it comes to Alex. Not that this is news, not really. But still. I’ve been so caught up in pushing everything I’m feeling down and hoping it would go away, I completely forgot that I was expected to be present at a state dinner at the end of January. After weeks of radio silence, I am going to have to have this conversation with Alexandria _in person_. Like I said: an absolute idiot.

When I first step into the entrance hall of the White House, my face is a carefully constructed mask of calm. My feet stutter without my permission when Alexandria’s eyes lock on mine. She looks like she wants to attack me. I’m not certain I blame her.

As I approach, I hear Ms. Bankston hiss, “All right, photos.”

“Oh,” I say. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

“Hey,” Alexandria whispers into my ear as she hugs me just a little too hard, like she’s half expecting me to make a run for it. “Cool to see you’re not dead.”

“Er,” is all I have to say for myself. There goes my plan to avoid her completely.

“We need to talk,” she whispers as we pose for a photo, and before I can respond with another pathetic vowel sound Alexandria’s been hauled away with her brother and Noah, and I’m being corralled into a photo op with the prime minister.

During supper, inexplicably, the only thing I can think about is whether I’ve ever seen Alexandria eat before. Surely, she can’t always chew so ferociously, right? Her teeth would break. Every time I meet her eyes, I break away quickly and focus instead on my rice pilaf or the glass of red wine (my third) in front of me.

During a rare moment when I don’t feel her gaze boring into my soul, I risk a glance across the table and see her whispering urgently into Noah’s ear. My curiosity is piqued, but I remind myself it’s not my business. In fact, I’ve made quite sure nothing about her is my business, nor will it ever be. She gets up and moves away from the table, and the prime minister is once again demanding my attention.

Noah comes to save me not thirty seconds later, babbling something about profiteroles and steering me to the dessert table. He’s talking more _at_ me than _to_ me, but I’ve nothing against profiteroles so I allow him to pull me along.

We’ve just landed in front of a lovely display of chocolates when Alexandria materializes between us. “Hi,” she says. My jaw goes slack. “Sorry to interrupt. Important, um. International. Relations. Stuff.” She seizes me by the elbow and all but drags me away.

“Do you mind?” I ask, terrified for a fleeting moment that she’s actually going to hit me. Not that I don’t deserve it. I hope she has the decency not to do it anyplace that will show.

“Shut your face,” she says, briskly steering me away from the rest of the party, and I can’t help but wonder how not one person seems at all concerned- or even to notice, really- that a member of the royal family is being marched to her untimely demise.

My last hope is a Secret Service agent I’m sure I’ve seen before, guarding the doors Alex is beelining us towards.

“You’re not going to kill her, are you?” she says. My stomach settles infinitesimally.

“Probably not.” The butterflies are back.

She opens the door just wide enough for us to slip through, and Alexandria hauls me in behind her.

“What on God’s earth are you doing?” I demand, ready to go on the defensive.

“Shut up, shut all the way up, oh my God,” she hisses. She lunges towards me, one hand coming up to my throat, and terror causes all of the blood in my body to pool around my ankles. Only, she’s not choking me, as I first feared. Her hand is firm but soft, and she backs me up against the wall and crushes her mouth to mine.

And whatever I was expecting her to do to me, it most _certainly_ was not this. My jaw falls open, more out of shock than anything else, and my mind is blissfully, giddily blank. Then I realize I should probably do something, should probably kiss her back, and oh my _God_ , this is even better than I remembered it. I should’ve kissed her ages ago, if I’d known it could possibly be _this_ good. This has been years in the making, and it’s all I’ve wanted that entire time, and-

“Wait,” I say, breathless, breaking away from her. “Should we-”

“What?”

“I mean, er, should we, I dunno, slow down?” I cringe at myself. Why do I insist on sabotaging myself like this when something so singularly _good_ was just happening to me? For some unknown reason, I continue. “Go for dinner first, or-”

The look in her eyes is murderous, and it’s probably not healthy that it is totally doing it for me, but I can try to unpack that later. “We just had dinner.”

“Right. I meant- I just thought-”

“Stop thinking,” she commands, and I feel lightheaded in the most pleasant possible way.

“Yes. Gladly.”

She moves almost frantically, pushing a candelabra off the table beside us and pushing me back onto it so my back presses against an oil painting of someone I absolutely could not care less about in this moment. My dress slides up and I let my legs fall open and she readily crowds up between them, getting a fistful of my hair and pressing another searing kiss to my lips.

She somehow gets even more aggressive from there and holy _fuck_ , would I like to shake the hand of whomever she learned this from. She has my lip between her teeth and I can’t help but let my head fall back, barely remembering to stifle the moan that’s building in my throat.

I hook my bare leg around the back of her thigh and send up a silent prayer of thanks for her penchant for jumpsuits, because she is wearing the _hell_ out of this one. I kiss her back ferociously, curling my fingers into her curls. She slides her hand from my knee up my thigh, and an electric shock zips up my spinal column. Summoning every last ounce of self-control I still possess, I slam my hand down on top of hers, digging my nails in to halt her motion.

“Time’s up!” the Secret Service agent from before calls in through a crack in the doors.

Alexandria falls back on her heels and I untangle my fingers from her hair. I rock my hips up against her, desperately, involuntarily, before she steps back.

“Fuck,” she says.

“I’m going to die,” I say, helpless.

“I’m going to kill you,” she tells me.

“Yes, you are,” I agree.

She takes another step back and I slide myself gracelessly off of the table, shimmying my skirt back down my thighs.

“People are gonna be coming in here soon,” she says, reaching down and almost tripping on her heels as she scoops up the candelabra and shoves it back onto the table. Her lipstick is destroyed. “Fuck, you look- _fuck_ ,” she says.

She takes a step toward me again and my heart thumps in my chest, but she reaches up and starts frantically petting my hair, trying to smooth it down. I’m rather irrationally resentful of how well her dark complexion masks the flush in her cheeks. I rub my thumb under her lower lip, trying to smudge away where our two lip colors have combined.

“Okay, so,” she says. “Yeah. So here’s what we’re gonna do. You are gonna go be, like, five hundred feet away from me for the rest of the night, or else I am going to do something that I will deeply regret in front of a lot of very important people.”

“All right …”

“And then,” she says, and she slips an arm firmly around my waist, draws me to her so her lips are a breath away from mine. I hope she can’t hear me swallow the lump in my throat. “And then you are going to come to the East Bedroom on the second floor at eleven o’clock tonight, and I am going to do very bad things to you, and if you fucking ghost me again, I’m going to get you put on a fucking no fly list. Got it?”

There’s a very real chance I am going to pass out. “Perfectly,” I choke.


	24. Ch6 - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley visits the East Bedroom.

Eleven o’clock. Eleven o’clock. She did say eleven, right? I’m having trouble convincing myself this entire evening hasn’t been some sort of elaborate fever dream, because there is absolutely no way a person such as myself could have such phenomenal luck. I look at the clock again. 10:32. I should brush my teeth.

I think about changing, but instinctively I just know she would mock me ruthlessly for my matching flannel pajama set. And I can’t very well walk the halls of the fucking White House in anything less. Whatever. She seemed to like my dress well enough. I do, however, change out of the kitten heels I wore to supper and, figuring that going barefoot may be considered inconsiderate in the home of a foreign dignitary, settle on a pair of flats I planned to wear on the flight home.

10:38. I resist the urge to scream. I need to be moving. I start to pace.

This is a terrible idea. It is an objectively, absolutely terrible idea. But I don’t care. I want to laugh, and then I remember I’m alone, so I do. Breathy. My life is a cosmic joke and I am so, so fine with how it’s going at the moment.

I really thought Alexandria was straight. I have no idea if she’s ever even done … things … with a girl before. But the look in her eye when she whispered “very bad things” against my lips has me absolutely dying to find out. Maybe this is an experimentation type of thing for her. I shouldn’t let myself get my hopes up, shouldn’t overthink it.

As if.

10:45. My stomach is in my throat and I think my heart may be located somewhere around my pelvis. I wonder, half hysterically, if I would be more or less nervous without 2.5 glasses of wine sloshing around in my stomach.

I check my reflection one last time. Apply lip balm. Get halfway to the door, then turn back and slide a hair tie onto my wrist. Turn back to the mirror and give myself a stern pep talk. _Get. Your. Shit. To. Gether._ Shake out my shoulders. That’s it, I can’t wait any longer.

I force myself to take short, measured steps. I’m definitely going to be early, but I don’t want to be so early it’s weird. Oh, who am I kidding? Absolutely no part of whatever this is will ever not be weird.

When I round the corner, I nearly have a heart attack and stop just short of barreling into the same Secret Service agent who was guarding the door to the red room Alex accosted me in a few hours ago. She whips round in a way that is massively intimidating, but relaxes her shoulders when she registers my face. She quirks an eyebrow.

“Hello. Er. I’m afraid I didn’t get your name when we saw one another last?”

“… Amy.” She holds out a hand for me to shake, and I grasp it firmly, letting a small smile play out on my lips.

“Amy,” I repeat. “Harley. It’s a pleasure.” She gives me a look that says _I know who you are, dumbass,_ but not unkindly. I suppress the urge to smack my palm against my brow. “Er,” I start again. “I’m looking for the East Bedroom? I’ve been, ah … summoned.”

“… Right,” she finally answers. “You’re nearly there. Round the corner, and it’s the one opposite the elevator, not next to it.” She doesn’t ask anything else, for which I am enormously grateful.

“Thank you. Ah, have a nice night?”

She laughs, low and knowing. “You too, kid.”

So I’m here. And it’s fine. This isn’t my first rodeo. Only … none of the girls before were her.

I knock on Alexandria’s door. I didn’t even bring my phone with me. I have no idea how close to eleven it even is.

She opens it and exhales, long and slow. Her eyes trace me from head to toe, and I try not to squirm under the intensity of her gaze. I truthfully can’t recall a time when she just _looked_ at me, and certainly not when she looked at me like _that_. I frantically take mental stock of what she’s seeing. I’m taller than she is, broader in the shoulders, firmer where she is willowy and light where she is dark. I am very much so not my own type, but _God,_ I hope I’m hers. Judging from the way she’s looking at me, I think I may be.

“Sorry I’m early,” I finally say, grinning halfway.

Alex bites her lip. _I_ want to bite that lip. “Find your way here okay?”

“There was a very helpful Secret Service agent,” I say. “I believe her name was Amy?”

She smiles fully, earnestly. “Get in here.”

My grin spreads to match hers, and I can feel it’s the one that doesn’t photograph well, and I don’t care. I hook my fingers under her elbow and step into her space. Alexandria’s feet are bare, and I’m silently thankful I’m not in shoes that make our height difference any more difficult to navigate. Our noses brush together as I sweep down to press my lips to hers, and I can feel her smile against mine.

I shut and lock the door behind me, trying not to break our kiss fully in the process. I’ve waited for this long enough; I refuse to waste another second. I slide one hand up her back to the nape of her neck, reveling in the soft baby hairs brushing against my fingertips. Our kisses are softer now, and distantly I think she’s adjusting to match my tempo.

She pulls me tight to her body by the waist, and I can practically hear her mind buzzing with thoughts. I wonder if its ever just _quiet_ inside her head. I doubt it. I may have finally met my match in the overthinking department.

Finally I pull away from her and say, “How do you want to do this?”

Something akin to determination crosses her face, and she grabs me by the strap of my dress. She pushes a little, and it is surprisingly strong and I am surprisingly into it. “Get on the couch.”

I remind myself to breathe and do as she says. Alexandria moves to stand over me, and I stare up at her, ravenous for whatever she is willing to give.

“You’ve been dodging me for _weeks_ ,” Alex says, widening her stance to bracket my knees. She leans down and braces a hand on the back of the couch, and her other hand traces my collarbone lazily. “You went out with a _boy_.”

“I’m gay,” I tell her, and though my tone doesn’t betray it, I find myself idiotically very nervous to say it aloud to her, even though she’s collected some very convincing empirical evidence to the fact in the last month. I press a hand to her hip, and she inhales sharply. I love that I’m able to pull that sound from her, want to hear what other noises I can coax from that filthy mouth. “Not something wise to pursue as a member of the royal family. And I wasn’t sure you weren’t going to murder me for kissing you.”

“Then why’d you do it?” she asks. She leans in and brushes her lips over the sensitive skin just behind my ear, and I have to physically hold my breath to keep from whimpering.

“Because I- I hoped you wouldn’t. Murder me.” I’m trying very, very hard to keep my thoughts straight as she keeps her attention on my neck. “I had … suspicions. You might want me too.” She bites down on the side of my neck lightly, and a breath of air hisses out of me. “Or, I thought, until I saw you with Noah, and then I was … jealous … and I was drunk and an idiot and I just got sick of waiting for the answer to present itself.”

“You were _jealous_ ,” Alexandria says. “You _want_ me.”

And I can’t wait, not for another second. I move abruptly, trying to throw her off balance, and haul her into my lap by both hips. My voice comes out low and forceful, and I hope my eyes convey just how badly I want this, want _her_. “Yes, you preening twit, I’ve wanted you long enough that I won’t have you tease me for another _fucking_ second.”

It’s a gamble, using my most royal, commanding tone with her, but when I yank her into another bruising kiss and she grinds down against me, it most definitely pays off. She’s properly straddling me now, and our kisses are hard and desperate, all teeth and tongue. She grinds against me again, moaning into my mouth, and I mutter a curse back without breaking away.

I kiss her messily, urgently, and she reciprocates enthusiastically. Her fingers thread through my hair, seeming to savor every new bit of me her hands are able to find. Her touches are somehow simultaneously greedy and feather-light, and I am in awe of all of the contradictions this girl contains. I am even more in awe that her lips are on me. Alexandria kisses me until it feels like I can’t breathe, like I’m in very real danger of forgetting both of our names due to sheer oxygen deprivation, and I don’t care, I don’t want to stop.

She pulls away and stands, briefly, and I am about to whine at the sudden loss of contact when she slips her shoulders out of her jumpsuit and lets it drop to the floor, pooling around her feet. It looks like something out of a fucking film, and I think dizzily that perhaps she’s practiced that move in the mirror before, and then she’s on me again, pushing the straps of my dress down off my own shoulders and pressing kisses to each inch of newly exposed skin.

I slide my hands up her stomach and hesitate at the bottom of her bra, but she murmurs something that definitely sounds like assent from where she’s working a hickey onto the skin under my clavicle, and I push my hands under the fabric. Alex brings her lips back to mine as I do so, and then my right thumb encounters something cool. I pull away from her mouth and smirk at her gleefully.

“I’m sorry,” I say, mouth still only a breath away from hers. “But do you have _one_ of your nipples pierced?”

Alex huffs and runs her tongue across my lower lip before I pull away again. She moans softly in protest, then finally opens her eyes enough to lock with mine. “Look,” she says, instantly defensive. “Noah and Kit left me alone for a week last year and it was the rash decision that would be the most easily concealed from the press and-”

I don’t know what else she was planning to say, because I fasten my mouth to a spot just under her jaw and her voice trails off, her fingers threading through my hair again.

“ _Believe_ me,” I sigh against her skin. “It was not meant as a criticism.”

She laughs and pulls me by the root of my hair back to her mouth and God, how the hell did I stumble into this kind of luck? Her tongue is warm as it runs over mine and tastes faintly of something warm and savory, like honey. How recently could she have possibly eaten honey? Maybe it’s the seasoning of the chicken from supper. Do I taste this good to her? Fuck, I’m overthinking again.

“Hang on,” I say, and she starts to groan but I rest my fingertips against her lips to shush her. The gesture feels so different in this context than it did when Dylan tried it on me just a few weeks ago. At least, I hope it’s different. “I want-” I try not to cringe myself. _Just say it, Harley, goddamnit._ I stroke my finger up her cheek and jut my chin out slightly, a habit I’m aware of and can’t seem to stop doing. “I want you on the bed.”

She’s completely still now, and for once she’s not bloody talking. I let my eyes search hers, looking for an answer to the question I’m afraid to vocalize. _Are you going to stop this now that it’s real?_

“Well, come on, Your Highness,” Alexandria says, shifting her weight to tease me a bit before standing.

“You are a menace,” I say, but I’m smiling as I follow her.

She climbs onto the bed and slides back to prop herself up on the pillows, never taking her eyes off me. I kick off my shoes at the end of the bed, and after a moment’s contemplation, let my dress drop to the floor as well. It’s one of those things with the bra built into it, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m one article of clothing more vulnerable than she is at the moment.

Her eyes drink me in hungrily, and I realize with a start that I am not self-conscious. She’s left absolutely no space for me to wonder whether she likes what she sees, and fuck it, I feel beautiful and sexy and _desired_. I’m staring back at her when she pulls me out of my trance.

“Quit stalling.”

“Bossy,” I say, happily complying.

I cover her body with mine, sliding one thigh between her legs and bracing my hands on the pillows, not wanting to press too much of my weight onto her. I let one hand trail over her chest and stop at a key on a chain resting over her sternum.

“What’s this?” I’ve seen it before, hanging on a delicate silver chain whenever she wears something with a neckline low enough to show it, but never felt like I could ask, like she’d want to tell me.

She huffs at me, impatient. “The key to my mom’s house in Texas,” she says, threading her fingers back into my hair. I pointedly do not moan despite how nice it feels, because I truly want to hear what she’s telling me, greedy for any detail she deems fit to share. “I started wearing it when I moved here. I guess I thought it would remind me of where I came from or something- did I or did I not tell you to quit stalling?”

I stare dead into her eyes, not certain what to say, but am saved when she tugs me down into another kiss that leaves my mind pleasantly blank. I let my weight press down on her, pushing her into the mattress. The hand that’s not working at the loose curls on the back of my head settles into the dip of my waist, and she swallows a sound that I never thought that particular bit of anatomy could inspire. She moves her mouth to my neck again, and I’m certain she’s going to leave a mark there, and I don’t care. She could probably do whatever she wanted right now and I’d just moan helplessly in return.

My hands travel south and stop at the waistband of her panties, waiting for permission. She whimpers and I kiss my way down her chest and abdomen and stop right between her hips, bringing my gaze up to meet hers.

“Oh my fucking god,” Alex says as I toss her panties aside. “Fuck.” Her body is responding to every touch in a way that is so much better than I could’ve ever imagined. Words spill from her mouth, primarily expletives. “I can’t believe- God, you are the most insufferable goddamn person I’ve ever met, do you know that- fuck- you’re infuriating, you’re the worst- you’re-”

“Do you _ever_ stop talking?” I interrupt. “Such a _mouth_ on you.” When she peels her eyes off the ceiling to meet mine, I can’t tear my gaze away. I’m painfully aware that I’m smiling like an idiot, but her eyes are heavy lidded and her mouth is fixed in a half-drunk, aroused smile, and I don’t think she minds. I keep eye contact with her as my hands continue to explore her, enjoying watching her fall apart.

“Wait,” she says, and I stop immediately, back up slightly. “I mean, _yes_ , obviously, _oh my God_ , but, like, if you keep doing that I can’t-” she stops, her breath hitching. “-it’s, that’s just- that’s not _allowed_ before I get to see you naked.”

I smirk, relieved she isn’t backing down. “All right.”

She flips us over, and again I’m surprised how much strength she packs into a small stature. She climbs up the length of my body and stops at eye level.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hello.”

“I’m gonna take your panties off now.”

“Yes, good, carry on.”

She does, and I reach a hand behind her to finally discard her bra. She leans down and flicks her tongue over one nipple, and my heart skips a beat as she travels down past my solar plexus and to my pelvis, planting little kisses as she trails her way down.

“I’ve, uh,” she begins. “I’ve never actually done his before.”

“Alex,” I say, figuring now probably isn’t the best time to antagonize her with her full name. I stroke her hair, hoping to convey that I’m already incredibly pleased with how the evening’s gone. “You don’t have to, I’m-”

“No, I want to,” she says, shimmying my thong down as she does so. “I just need you to tell me if it’s awful.”

I’m rendered speechless for a moment before my senses return to me. “Okay. Of course.”

And I must have been the fucking Dalai Lama in a past life, because there is absolutely no _way_ I could’ve done anything good enough to deserve this. This is some sort of divine, cosmic, karmic intervention at work, and I send up a mental thanks to every deity I can think of. Granted, it’s not many, because Alexandria Claremont-Diaz’s mouth is on me and _oh my God_ , but I’m pretty certain it’s the thought that counts.

Alexandria absolutely could’ve fooled me had she not told me it was her first time. To be truthful, I’m not positive exactly what spills out of my mouth as I stare up at the ceiling of the East Bedroom of the fucking White House, with the fucking First Daughter of the United States between my legs. To be honest, I don’t think I can exactly be blamed for that.

After, I haul her back up the length of me and kiss her hungrily, reveling in the taste of myself on her lips, and all I can think, dizzily, is _mine_.

“Not awful?” she asks, resting her head on the pillow beside me, breathless.

I’m seriously considering asking Senator Oscar Diaz for his blessing after what I just experienced, but I think distantly that her ego probably doesn’t need any further inflating. “Definitely adequate,” I answer, scooping her up to me greedily, trying to touch every part of her at once. Her skin is soft and warm and _perfect_ , she’s so perfect, and I want more than anything to make her feel as good as I do.

I roll us over, pinning her down beneath me, and I kiss her hard and messy and like I’ve wanted to kiss her for four godforsaken years. I settle between her legs and return the favor eagerly, and her back arches off the bed in a way that belongs in the fucking Louvre. The things that come out of her mouth would be enough to make a sailor blush, and I’m too focused on the task at hand to bother cataloguing most of it. But in one moment of crystal clarity she locks eyes with me, tangles her fingers into the roots of my hair, and half-moans “ _Sweetheart_.”

It ignites something in the pit of my stomach, something that somehow almost rivals the climax of a few minutes ago. She literally bites down on her hand as she comes undone, squeezing her thighs around me in a way I don’t mind at all. When she finally relaxes her muscles, I laugh and press a sticky kiss to the inside of her thigh. She looks down at me, delirious and boneless and somehow still wanting.

I shift up to lay beside her and press my face into the hollow of her neck. She murmurs something sounding vaguely like approval and throws an arm gracelessly around my waist.

“Hmm,” I hum, bringing my nose to press against hers. “If I had known this was all it took to shut you up, I’d have done it ages ago.”

I suspect it takes quite a bit more energy than she currently possesses to craft a response, but finally she manages. “Fuck you.”

I swallow any comments along the lines of _‘What is it you think we just got done doing?’_ and instead settle on another messy kiss. She laughs into my mouth, and I’m not sure what’s funny, but I wish I could see it too.

I roll back onto my back and manage not to sigh as the weight of the world settles back onto my shoulders, my thoughts moving so fast it feels as though my heart will burst trying to pump enough blood into my brain to keep up with the demand.

“Hey,” Alexandria pokes my side, bringing me back to Earth momentarily. “Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not _freaking out_ ,” I say, definitely freaking out.

She scoots closer to me. “It was fun,” she says. “I had fun. You had fun, right?”

Fun doesn’t begin to cover it. “Definitely,” I say emphatically.

“Okay, cool. So, we can do this again, anytime you want,” she says, dragging her knuckles down my shoulder. The touch leaves a trail of goosebumps down my arm, and I think, half-hysterically, that if we did this anytime I want she would have to move into one of the spare rooms in my apartment. “And you know this like, doesn’t change anything between us, right? We’re still ... whatever we were before. Y’know, er, friends, or whatever. Just, friends who hook up sometimes.”

 _Oh_. I cover my eyes with one hand involuntarily. “Right.”

“So,” she stretches languidly and I can’t help wondering if she’s aware she looks like sex personified. “I guess I should tell you. I’m bisexual.”

“Good to know,” I respond. My eyes graze over her body greedily and I add, as much to myself as to her, “I am very, very gay.”

I smile a little, aware that she is watching me and giddy for a reason I choose not to look into too deeply. I lean across the pillow and kiss her softly, ghosting my fingertips along her jaw.

“Hey,” she says, bringing her mouth a breath away from my ear, “you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I should warn you it’s probably in both of our best interests if you go back to your room before morning. Unless you want the PPOs to lock the Residence down and come requisition you from my boudoir.”

“Ah,” I say, because there it is, the reminder that we’re not two normal girls who can kiss whomever they like, that this can never be something normal, something _real_. I look up at the ceiling and wonder how the hell I am supposed to pretend to feel anything less deeply than what I’m feeling in this moment. “You’re right.”

“You can stay for another round, if you want to,” Alexandria offers, and I can’t tell if she’s joking, but if I do that it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to make myself leave.

I cough and run a hand through my hair, deciding as I encounter a snarl it’s probably best if I tie it back before wandering the halls again. “I rather think I’d- I’d better get back to my room.”

I fish my panties from the end of the bed and pull them on, shaking out my shoulders as I stand. Once I’m dressed, Alexandria follows me to the door, still very comprehensively (and distractingly) naked.

I’m suddenly completely uncertain how to leave this encounter. “Well, er …” I start, looking down at my feet.

She rolls her eyes at me. “For Christ’s sake, Harls, you know what my pussy tastes like. You can kiss me goodnight.”

My jaw drops for a beat, genuinely incredulous, and a sincere laugh bursts out of me before I’ve time to censor it. Alexandria smiles at the sound, and I lean down to kiss her fiercely before ducking out the door.


	25. Ch6 - part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll just pretend volleyball is similar to polo for the sake of this story, yeah?

“Wait. Wait. You’re doing what?”

I refer to the itinerary in front of me. “A charity volleyball match? Something about the Special Olympics that the Okonjo Foundation is sponsoring.”

The line is silent for a moment. “You play _volleyball_?”

“Lex.” I like calling her Lex, and she likes it considerably more than Alexandria. It makes me irrationally happy to have something that’s just for the two of us. “You literally picked me up from a practice when you were here last.”

“I thought you played something stupid, like squash!”

“ _Why_ would you think that?”

“Well, Shaan just said we were picking you up from the courts, and … I dunno, I guess my mind just sort of filled in the most boring, British option I could come up with.”

“Ah … huh,” I say, antagonizing her just a little. “Well, apparently, it’s 10 thousand pounds a seat, but I can have one reserved for you.”

“That is _obscene_ -”

“Yes, yes, but doesn’t it feel good to know that it’ll be covered by my nan’s blood money?”

She chews on this for a moment and I add, softer, “Please come?”

“Look,” she says after a few seconds of muffled conversation with someone on her end. “I guess I’ll _try_ to make it, but I’ll have you know that as a self-respecting American, I’m obligated to avoid Connecticut as much as humanly possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to add that I live in Connecticut and thus cannot legally be yelled at for blaspheming. This place is a nightmare (but I love it).


	26. Ch6 - part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harley and Alex catch up at a charity match.

In truth, it’s probably for the best that I can’t find Alexandria in the stands when I scan them before the match begins. The knowledge that she’s here, watching me, waiting to put her hands on me- it’s a lot. I’ve been fantasizing about a very cute, very smart, very specific girl with a smart mouth and a penchant for calling me names under my body for years now, and now that some benevolent god has seen fit to make that a reality … well. It’s essentially the only thing my mind can focus on.

I try to keep my mind from wandering during the match, but am lucky that it’s one of those _all in good fun, for the kids_ , sorts of things and not a competition with anything riding on it. I’m stationed as a middle blocker, and playing fine, and I really hope volleyball isn’t one of the three sports Alexandria played in high school- _why can’t I remember that?_ Although then again, she absolutely seems the type to be into competition in both the friendly and biblical sense.

There’s an absolutely surreal moment where Misty May-fucking-Treanor sets me up for a kill against Kerri Walsh Jennings and I fear for a ridiculous moment I may cry or burst into hysterical laughter.

The promise of Alexandria’s hands on me fills me with adrenaline and carries me through the remainder of the match in a haze. I’m faintly aware of the dull roar of an approving crowd and the occasional clap of a congratulatory hand on my shoulder or backside. I find myself getting more and more into it as the anticipation builds, and when the final point of the fifth set is called in our favor I throw my arms over my head and catch the tiny Ivy League libero who launches herself into my arms on instinct, laughing and bizarrely feeling a tightness in my throat like the familiar threat of tears from championship games in my uni days.

We shake hands with the opposing team and stand politely in formation as some higher up or other from the Special Olympics thanks us for participating and the spectators for their support and the University of Connecticut for allowing us the use of their venue and I’m sure a whole lot of other things I don’t hear through the dull whoosh of my blood rushing in my ears.

Finally, _finally_ , it’s over and we’re allowed to head to the locker room and I’m about to break into an actual sprint when the little libero girl from before catches me by the elbow, phone in hand. I begrudgingly join the little huddle and have gained about 15 new followers on every conceivable form of social media by the time we start to say our goodbyes. I head down the tunnel toward where spectators are spilling out and nearly run headlong into Alexandria.

“Oh shit-”

Her cheeks are flushed like she’s just come inside from the cold February air, and she surveys my body not-at-all subtly.

“Oh, hello,” I say, measured. She doesn’t answer, still staring pointedly at my legs. I resist the urge to glance down as well. “I was coming to find you, actually.”

“Yeah, hi, here I am.”

“Here you are.”

She glances over her shoulder and just barely gestures with her chin. “There’s, uh. Cameras. Three o’clock.”

“Right,” I say, straightening my posture. I’m suddenly very aware of the tight ponytail exposing my neck and shoulders, and can’t recall if she’s ever seen my hair like this. She smiles up at me.

“Hey, isn’t there, uh, a thing?” she says. “You needed to. Uh. Show me?”

I look at her, then glance around at the buzzing bodies of the rich and influential surrounding us. “Now?”

“It was a four-and-a-half-hour drive to get here, and I have to go back to DC in an hour, so I don’t know when else you’re expecting to show it to me.”

And I know it’s risky, but I genuinely think my body may combust if I waste this opportunity when she is so close to me. I flash a camera-ready smile and laugh, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Ah, yes. Right, this way.”

I steer her back the way I came, and veer right into a doorway labeled GUESTS – MENS LOCKER ROOM.

“Seriously-” she starts.

“Not a word,” I shoot back as I pull her in behind me and find it, blessedly, empty. “Christ, you are going to be the death of me.” I glance around and wedge a metal chair under the door handle, turning back and grinning at her sweetly.

She drops her coat to the ground and takes three quick steps toward me, grabbing the fabric of my long-sleeved jersey in one fist and pulling me into a fierce kiss. Her hands explore me, desperately, and I am just bringing mine to the back of her neck when she pushes me away abruptly.

“ _Ugh_ ,” she groans, exasperated. She makes a massive deal of looking me up and down, gesturing at my kneepads and ankle braces. “You look _ridiculous_.”

“Should I-” I step to a nearby bench and put a foot up to unlace my sneakers.

“What? No, of course not, keep it all on,” she says. I freeze obediently. “Oh my God, what are you doing? I can’t even look at you.” I frown. “No, Jesus, I just meant- I’m so _mad_ at you.” I place my foot back on the ground and stare at her, bewildered. “Just, come here. _Fuck_.”

“I’m quite confused,” I say truthfully.

“Me fucking too,” Alexandria says, and I’m suddenly close to certain that volleyball was on the list of extracurriculars she participated in as a teen. Hm. “Listen,” she continues. “I don’t know why, but this whole thing”- she gestures at my entire body without specifying further- “is … really doing it for me, so, I just need to.”

She crowds me against the wall again, lips working at the sensitive skin of my throat. “Oh, God,” I say.

“Yeah,” she agrees, working a hand down the front of my spandex shorts.

“Oh, _God_ ,” I repeat at the welcome familiarity of her fingers, warm against my flushed skin.

Somehow in the process, she works my jersey and sports bra up so they’re bunched around my throat. Her tongue runs over one of my nipples, and holy fucking _Christ_ , I really hope she’s been studying from the internet and hasn’t found someone new already to teach her these things. I gasp and pull her hair, and I swear I can feel her smile against my skin as her fingers refuse to still, coaxing me through my orgasm.

As soon as she releases me, I’ve got her backed against the bench and all but shove her onto her back. Her pupils are huge and she licks her lips and I wonder if she knows just how much she could convince me to do for her with just that one action. I find myself grateful for the kneepads as I settle myself between her legs, eager to give even better than I’ve just gotten.

After, she’s resting her head against my shoulder and my fingers are busied in her hair, idly combing through her curls. “I’m still fucking mad at you,” she murmurs without any malice.

“Of course you are.”

She pulls me to her lips in another deep kiss and I lose track of time, my only thought _Alex_ as I press my tongue between her teeth.

Finally, when we’ve used likely more than the hour Alexandria was given, we sneak back out and I walk her to the SUV waiting to shuttle her back to DC, away from me. My hand lingers on the small of her back just before we part.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be anywhere near Kensington anytime soon?”

“That shithole?” she undermines the dig with a wink. “Not if I can help it.”

“Oi,” I say, faking sternness. “That’s disrespect of the crown, that is. Insubordination. I’ve had people thrown in the dungeon for less.”

She turns and walks backward toward her car, eyes still trained on me, and raises her hands in the air. “Hey,” she says, “don’t threaten me with a good time.”

As usual she’s stricken me speechless, and I wonder dizzily whether she’s kidding about being into that sort of thing.

God, I hope she isn’t kidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next section is just emails with hardly anything changed from the original text, so three chapters today!! then Ch 7 starts :)


	27. Ch6 - part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first emails.

Subject: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 00:32

From: A <agcd@eclare45.com>

To: Harley

Her Royal Highness Princess Harley of Whatever,

Don’t make me learn your actual title.

Are you going to be at the Paris fund-raiser for rainforest conservation this weekend?

Alex

First Daughter of Your Former Colony

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:14

From: Harley <hwales@kensingtonemail.com>

To: A

Alexandria, First Daughter of Off-Brand England:

First, you should know how terribly inappropriate is it for you to intentionally botch my title. I could have you

made into a royal settee cushion for that kind of lèse-majesté. Fortunately for you, I do not think you would

compliment my sitting room décor.

Secondly, no, I will not be attending the Paris fund-raiser; I have a previous engagement. You shall have to find

someone else to accost in a cloakroom.

Regards,

Her Royal Highness Princess Helena of Wales

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:27

From: A <agcd@eclare45.com>

To: Harley

Huge Raging Headache Princess Harls of Who Cares,

It is amazing you can sit down to write emails with that gigantic royal stick up your ass. I seem to remember

you really enjoying being “accosted”.

Everyone there is going to be boring anyway. What are you doing?

Alex

First Daughter of Hating Fund-raisers

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:32

From: Harley <hwales@kensingtonemail.com>

To: A

Alex, First Daughter of Shirking Responsibilities:

A royal stick is formally known as a “scepter.”

I’ve been sent to a summit in Germany to act as if I know anything about wind power. Primarily, I’ll be getting

lectured by old men in lederhosen and posing for photos with windmills. The monarchy has decided we care

about sustainable energy, apparently- or at least that we want to appear to. An utter romp.

Re: fund-raiser guests, I thought you said I was boring?

Regards,

Harangued Royal Highness

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:34

From: A <agcd@eclare45.com>

To: Harley

Horrible Revolting Heir,

It’s recently come to my attention you’re not quite as boring as I thought. Sometimes. Namely when you’re

doing that think with your tongue.

Alex

First Daughter of Questionable Late Night Emails

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:37

From: Harley <hwales@kensingtonemail.com>

To: A

Alex, First Daughter of Inappropriately Timed Emails When I’m in Early Morning Meetings:

Are you trying to get fresh with me?

Regards,

Heavenly Royal Heretic

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:41

From: A <agcd@eclare45.com>

To: Harley

Her Royal Horniness,

If I were trying to get fresh with you, you would know it.

For example, I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all week, and I was hoping I’d see you in Paris so I

could put it to use.

I was also thinking you might know how to pick French cheeses. Not my area of expertise.

Alex

First Daughter of Cheese Shopping and Pussy Licking

Re: Paris?

04 March, 2020, 07:43

From: Harley <hwales@kensingtonemail.com>

To: A

Alex, First Daughter of Making Me Spill My Tea in Said Early Morning Meeting:

Hate you. Will try to get out of Germany.

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emails suck to format, good thing that's about 1/3 of this story :)  
> this is the last of ch6, ch7 will be separated into nine different parts (!!)


End file.
